BERKELEY 

LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY   OF 
CALIFORNIA 


MRS.  GEOFFREY. 


A  l^TOYEL. 


yVW^V^'-^^^V^-A      \      ^'^ 


BY   THE   AUTHOR   OF 
"rarvLis,"  "molly  bawn,"  "airy  fairy  Lilian,"  "bkadtt** 

DAUGHTERS,"  ETC. 


"The  fairest  flower  in  the  garden  of  creation  is  a  young  mind." — Sib 
J.  E.  Smith. 

"  Aristotle  affirmed  that  beauty  was  better  than  all  the  letters  of  recom- 
mendatioa  in  the  world." 


PHILADELPHIA: 

J.  B.   LIPPINCOTT    COMPANY. 
1896. 


^Tt?T 


7>i/i<j 


CONTENTS. 


pAoa 


CHAFTEB 

I. — How  Geoffrey  declares  his  intention  of  spending  the  autumn 

in  Ireland ' 

II. — How  GeoflFrey  goes  to  Ireland  ;  and  what  he  sees  there       .      13 
in. — How  Geoffrey's  heart  is  claimed  by  Cupid  as  a  target,  and 

how  Mona  stoops  to  conquer 23 

IV. — How  Geoffrey  and  Mona  enter  a  cabin  and  see  one  of  the 

results  of  Parnell's  eloquence  ...»         -       32 

V. — How  Mona  betrays  what  makes  Geoffrey  jealous;  and  how 

an  appointment  is  made  that  is  all  moonshine         .         .      43 
VI. — How  the  mystic  moonbeams  throw  their  rays  on  Mona;  and 
how  Geoffrey,  jealous  of  their  admiration,  desires  to  claim 

her  as  his  own "^ 

VII.— How  Geoffrey  and  Mona  fall  into  strange  company;  and 
how  they  profit  by  it;  and  how  Mona,  outstripping 
wicked  vengeance,  saves  a  life  .....       'O 

VIIL — How  Geoffrey  and  Mona  plan  a  transformation  scene  .       86 

IX.— How  Geoffrey  and  Mona  diligently  work  up  the  transfor- 
mation scene ;  and  how  success  crowns  their  efforts  .       96 
X. — How  Mona,  growing  inquisitive,  asks  questions ;  and  how 
Geoffrey,  being  brought  to  bay,  makes  confessions  that 
bode  but  evil  to  his  future  peace,  and  breed  immediate 

war 100 

XI.— How  Geoffrey  returns  to  his  allegiance— how  he  discovers 
his  divinity  deep  in  the  performance  of  some  mystic  rites 
within  the  cool  precincts  of  her  temple — and  how  he 
seeks  to  reduce  her  to  reason  from  the  top  of  an  inverted 

churn 107 

XII. How  Geoffrey  tells  home  secrets,  and  how  Mona  comments 

thereon— how  death  stalks  rampant  in  their  path— and 
how,  though  Geoffrey  declines  to  "  run  away,"  he  still 

"  lives  to  fight  another  day" H* 

1*  6 


154 


6  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  'AOM 

XIII. — How  Mona  proves  herself  equal — if  not  superior — to 
Dr.   Mary  Walker;    and  how  GiofFrey,  by  a  base 

threat,  carries  his  point 123 

XIV. — How  Geoffrey  writes  a  letter  that  possesses  all  the 
properties  of  dynamite — and  how  confusion  reigns  at 

the  Towers 130 

XV. — How  Lady  Rodney  speaks   her   mind — how  Geoffrey 
does  the  same — and  how  Mona  declares  herself  strong 

to  conquer 136 

XVI. — How  Geoffrey  and  Mona  enter  the  Towers — and  how 

they  are  received  by  the  inhabitants  thereof     .         •     145 
XVII. — How  Mona  rises  betimes — and  how  she  encounters  a 

stranger  amidst  the  morning  dews    ....     151 
XVIII. — How  old  Sir  George  hated  his  first-born — and  how  he 

made  his  will — and  how  the  earth  swallowed  it  .     156 

XIX.— How  Fate  deals  harshly  with  Mona,  and  how  she 
droops — as  might  a  flower — beneath   its   unkindly 

touch 160 

XX. — How  Mona  dances  a  country  dance  before  a  hypercrit- 
ical audience — and  how  more  eyes  than  she  wots  of 
mark  her  performance       ......     164 

XXI. — How  Nolly,  having  made  himself  presentable,  tries 
also  to  make  himself  agreeable — and  how  he  suc- 
ceeds   174 

XXII. — How  Mona  goes  to  her  first  ball — and  how  she  fares 

thereat       .........     18C 

XXIII. — How  Mona  interviews  the  duchess — and  how  she  sus- 
tains conversation  with  the  Rodneys'  evil  genius  .  189 
XXrV. — How  the  cloud  gathers — and  how  Nicholas  and  Dor- 
othy have  their  bad  quarter  of  an  hour  •  .  .  202 
XXV. — How  discussion  waxes  rife — and  how  Nicholas,  having 
made  a  suggestion  that  is  bitter  to  the  ears  of  his 
audience,  yet  carries  his  point  against  all  opposi- 
tion    210 

XXVI. — How  Mona  goes  to  Anadale — and  how  she  there  sees 

many  things  as  yet  to  her  unknown  .         .         .    217 

XXVII. — How  Mona  takes  a  walk  abroad — and  how  she  asks 

cross-questions  and  receives  crooked  answers    .         .     226 
XXVIII. — How  the  Towers  wakes  into  life — and  how  Mona  shows 

the  library  to  Paul  Rodney 239 

XXIX. — How  Geoffrey  dines  out,  and  how  Mona  fares  during 

his  absence 250 


CONTENTS.  7 

SHAFTEB  '*"'" 

XXX.— How  Mona,  ghost-like,  flits  through  the  old  Towers  at 
midnight— how  the  moon  lights  her  way— and  how 
she   meets   another   ghost    more   formidable  than 

herself 258 

XXXL— How  Mona  stands  her  ground— how  Paul  Rodney  be- 
comes her  prisoner — and  how  Geoffrey  on  his  return 
home  meets  with  a  warm  reception  .         .         •     262 

XXXII. — How  Mona  keeps  her  own  counsel — and  how  at  mid- 
day she  receives  a  note    ...•••     273 
XXXIII. — How  conversation  grows  rife  at  the  Towers— and  how 
Mona  asserts  herself— and  how  Lady  Rodney  licks 

the  dust 284 

XXXW.— How  the  Rodneys  make  merry  over  the  secret  panel 
— how  Geoffrey  questions   Mona — and  how,  when 
joy  is  at  its  highest,  evil  tidings  sweep  down  upon 
them         .......••     293 

XXXV.— How  Mona  comforts  Paul  Rodney— how  night  and 
death   descend   together — and  how    Paul   Rodney 

disposes  of  his  property 301 

XXXVI. — How  Mona  defends  the  dead — and  how  Lady  Lilias 

Eaton  waxes  eloquent 310 

XXXVII. — How  Mona  refuses  a  gallant  offer — and  how  Nolly 

views  life  through  the  branches  of  a  Portugal  laurel  314 
XXXVIII. — How  Nolly  declines  to  repeat  his  story — how  Jack 
Rodney  tells  one  instead — and  how  they  all  show 
their  surprise  about  what  they  knew  before  .  .  322 
XXXIX. — How  wedding-bells  can  be  heard  in  the  distance — 
how  love  encompasses  Mona — and  how  at  last  fare- 
well is  sDoken 827 


MRS.  GEOFFREY. 


CHAPTER  I. 


HO"W     flEOFFRET   DECLARES    HIS    INTENTION    OF    SPENDING 
THE   AUTUMN    IN   IRELAND. 

"  1  don't  see  why  I  shouldn't  put  in  a  month  there  very 
comfoftably,"  says  Geoflfrey,  indolently,  pulling  the  ears  of  a 
pretty,  saucy  little  fat  terrier  that  sits  blinking  at  him,  with 
brown  eyes  full  of  love,  on  a  chair  close  by.  "  And  it  will 
be  something  new  to  go  to  Ireland,  at  all  events.  It  is  rather 
out  of  the  running  these  times,  so  probably  will  prove  interest- 
ing ;  and  at  least  there  is  a  chance  that  one  won't  meet  every 
town  acquaintance  round  every  corner.  That's  the  worry  of 
going  abroad,  and  I'm  heartily  sick  of  the  whole  thing." 

"  You  will  get  murdered,"  says  his  mother,  quite  as  indo- 
lently, half  opening  her  eyes,  which  are  gray  as  Geoffrey's 
own.  "  They  always  kill  people,  with  things  they  call  pikes, 
or  burn  them  out  of  house  and  home,  over  there,  without 
either  rhyme  or  reason." 

"  They  certainly  must  be  a  lively  lot,  if  all  one  hears  ia 
true,"  says  Geoffrey,  with  a  suppressed  yawn. 

"  You  are  not  really  going  there,  Geoff?" 

"  Yes,  really." 

"  To  what  part  of  Ireland  ?" 

"  Somewhere  beyond  Bantry :  you  have  heard  of  Bantry 
Bay?" 

"  Oh,  I  dare  say  I  I  am  not  sure,"  says  Lady  Rodney, 
pettishly,  who  is  rather  annoyed  at  the  idea  of  his  going  to 
Ireland,  having  other  plans  in  view  for  him. 

"  Ever  heard  of  Botany  Bay  ?"  asks  he,  idly ;  but,  this 
question  being  distinctly  frivolous,  she  takes  no  notice  of  it. 

9 


10  MRS.  GEOFFREY. 

"  Well,  it's  in  Ireland,"  he  goes  on,  after  a  slight  but  dignified 
pause.  "  You  have  heard  of  the  Emerald  Isle,  I  suppose  ? 
It's  the  country  where  they  grow  potatoes,  and  say  '  bedad' ; 
and  Bantry  is  somewhere  south,  I  think.  I'm  never  very 
Bure  about  anything :  that's  one  of  my  charms." 

"  A  very  doubtful  charm." 

"  The  name  of  the  place  I  mean  to  stay  at — my  own  actual 
property — is  called  Coolnagurtheen,"  goes  on  Geoffrey,  heed- 
less of  her  censure. 

"Eh?"  says  Lady  Rodney. 

"  Coolnagurtheen." 

"  I  always  said  you  were  clever,"  says  his  mother,  languidly ; 
"  now  I  believe  it.  I  don't  think  if  I  lived  forever  I  should 
be  able  to  pronounce  such  a  sad  word  as  that.  Do — do  the 
natives  speak  like  that?" 

"  I'll  tell  you  when  I  come  back,"  says  Geoffrey, — "  if  I 
ever  do  1" 

"  So  stupid  of  your  uncle  to  leave  you  a  property  in  such  a 
country !"  says  Lady  Rodney,  discontentedly.  "  But  very 
like  him,  certainly.  He  was  never  happy  unless  he  was  buy- 
ing land  in  some  uninhabitable  place.  There  was  that  farm 
in  Wallachia, — ^your  cousin  Jane  nearly  died  of  chagrin  when 
she  found  it  was  left  to  her,  and  the  lawyers  told  her  she 
should  take  it,  whether  she  liked  it  or  not.  Wallachia  1  I 
don't  know  where  it  is,  but  I  am  sure  it  is  close  to  the  Bul- 
garian atrocities  1" 

"  Our  '  pretty  Jane,'  on  occasions,  can  talk  as  much  non- 
sense as — as  any  woman  I  ever  met,"  says  Geoffrey, — the 
hesitation  being  full  of  filial  reverence;  "  and  that  may  be  called, 
I  think,  unqualified  praise." 

"  Better  give  up  the  Irish  plan,  dear,  and  come  with  Nich- 
olas and  me  to  the  Nugents.  They  are  easy-going  people,  and 
will  suit  you." 

"  Free-and-easy -going  would  be  a  more  appropriate  term, 
from  all  I  have  heard." 

"  The  shooting  there  is  capital,"  says  his  mother,  turning  a 
deaf  ear  to  his  muttered  interruption,  "  and  I  don't  believe 
there  is  anything  in  Ireland,  not  even  birds." 

"  There  are  landlords,  at  least ;  and  very  excellent  shooting 
they  are,  if  all  accounts  be  true,"  says  Geoffrey,  with  a  grin, — 
"  to  say  nothing  of  the  partridge  and  grouse.     Besides,  it  will 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  11 

be  an  experience ;  and  a  man  should  say  '  how  d'ye  do  ?'  to 
his  tenants  sometimes." 

"  If  you  are  going  to  preach  to  me  on  that  subject,  of  course 
I  have  nothing  more  to  say,  But  I  wish  you  would  come  with 
me  to  the  Nugents." 

"  My  dear  mother,  there  is  hardly  anything  I  wouldn't  do 
for  you  ;  but  the  Nugent  scheme  wouldn't  suit  at  all.  That 
girl  of  the  Cheviots  is  sure  to  be  there, — you  know  how  fond 
Bessie  Nugent  is  of  her  ? — and  I  know  she  is  bent  on  marry- 
ing me." 

"  Nonsense  !  "Would  you  have  me  believe  you  are  afraid  ol 
her?" 

"  I  am  afraid  of  her ;  I  was  never  so  afraid  of  any  one  be- 
fore. I  have  made  it  the  business  of  my  life  to  avoid  her  ever 
since  last  New  Year's  Day,  when  some  kind  fellow  told  me  it 
was  leap-year.  You  know  I  never  yet  said  '  No'  to  any  one, 
and  I  shouldn't  dare  begin  by  saying  it  to  Miss  Cheviot.  She 
has  such  a  stony  glare,  and  such  a  profusion  of  nose  I" 

"  And  a  profusion  of  gold,  too,"  says  Lady  Bodney,  with  a 

"  I  hope  she  has,  poor  soul :  she  will  want  it,"  says  Geof- 
frey, feelingly  ;  and  then  he  falls  to  whistling  the  "  Two  Oba- 
diahs''  softly,  yet  with  a  relish,  beneath  his  breath. 

"  How  long  do  you  intend  to  banish  yourself  from  civilized 
life?" 

"  A  month,  I  dare  say.  Longer,  if  I  like  it ;  shorter,  if  I 
don't.  By  the  by,  you  told  me  the  other  day  it  was  the  dream 
of  your  life  to  see  me  in  Parliament,  now  that  '  Old  Nick' 
has  decided  on  leading  a  sedentary  existence, — a  very  stupid 
decision  on  his  part,  by  the  way,  so  clever  as  he  is." 

"  He  is  not  strong,  you  see :  a  little  thing  knocks  him  up, 
and  he  is  too  impressionable  for  a  public  career.  But  you  are 
different." 

"  You  think  I  am  not  impressionable  ?  Well,  time  will  tell. 
I  shouldn't  care  about  going  into  the  House  unless  I  weLt 
there  primed  and  loaded  with  a  real  live  grievance.  Now, 
why  should  I  not  adopt  the  Irish  ?  Consider  the  case  as  it 
stands :  I  go  and  see  them  ;  I  come  home,  raving  about  them 
and  their  wretched  condition,  their  cruel  landlords,  their  noble 
endurance,  magnificent  physique,  patient  suffering,  honest  re- 
venge, and  so  forth.     By  Jove !  I  feel  as  if  I  could  do  it 


12  3/72.9.   GEOFFREY. 

already,  even  before  I've  seen  them,"  says  Mr.  Rodney,  witK 
an  irreverent  laugh. 

"  Well,  don't  go  to  Dublin,  at  all  events,"  says  his  mother, 
plaintively.     "  It's  wretched  form." 

"  Is  it  ?  I  always  heard  it  was  rather  a  jolly  sort  of  little 
place,  once  you  got  into  it — well." 

"  What  a  partisan  you  do  make !"  says  Lady  Rodney,  with 
a  faint  laugh.  "  Perhaps  after  all  we  should  consider  Ireland 
the  end  and  aim  of  all  things.  I  dare  say  when  you  come 
back  you  will  be  more  Irish  than  the  Irish." 

"  It  is  a  good  thing  to  be  in  earnest  over  every  matter, 
however  trivial.  As  I  am  going  to  Ireland,  you  would  advise 
me  to  study  the  people,  would  you  not  ?" 

"  By  all  means  study  them,  if  you  are  really  bent  on  this 
tiresome  journey.  It  may  do  you  good.  You  will  at  least 
be  more  ready  to  take  my  advice  another  time." 

"  What  a  dismal  view  you  take  of  my  trip  I  Perhaps,  in 
spite  of  your  forebodings,  I  shall  enjoy  myself  down  to  the 
ground,  and  weep  copiously  on  leaving  Irish  soil." 

"  Perhaps.  I  hope  you  won't  get  into  a  mess  there,  and 
make  me  more  unhappy  than  I  am.  We  are  uncomfortable 
enough  without  that.  You  know  you  are  always  doing  some- 
thing bizarre, — something  rash  and  uncommon  I" 

"  How  nice  1"  says  GeoflFrey,  with  a  careless  smile.  "  Your 
'  faint  praise'  fails  '  to  damn' !  Why,  one  is  nothing  nowa- 
days if  not  eccentric.  Well,"  moving  towards  the  door,  with 
the  fox-terrier  at  his  heels,  "  I  shall  start  on  Monday.  That 
will  get  me  down  in  time  for  the  12th.  Shall  I  send  you  up 
any  birds  ?" 

"  Thanks,  dear ;  you  are  always  good,"  murmurs  Lady 
Rodney,  who  has  ever  an  eye  to  the  main  chance. 

"  K  there  are  any,"  says  Geoffrey,  with  a  twinkle  in  his 
eye. 

"  If  there  are  any,"  repeats  she,  unmoved. 


MRS.  OEOFFRET.  13 


CHAPTER  II. 

HOW   GEOFFREY   GOES   TO    IRELAND  ;    AND   WHAT   HE   SEES 
THERE. 

It  is  early  morn.  "  The  first  low  breath  of  waking  day 
stirs  the  wide  air."  On  bush  and  tree  and  opening  flower  the 
dew  lies  heavily,  like  diamonds  glistening  in  the  light  of  the 
round  sun.  Thin  clouds  of  pearly  haze  float  slowly  o'er  the 
sky  to  meet  its  rays ;  and 

Envious  streaks 
Do  lace  the  severing  clouds  in  yonder  east. 

Geoff'rey,  with  his  gun  upon  his  shoulder,  trudges  steadily 
)nward,  rejoicing  in  the  freshness  of  the  morning  air. 

To  his  right  lies  Bantry  Bay,  that  now  is  spreading  itself 
wt  in  all  its  glory  to  catch  the  delicate  hues  of  the  sky  above. 
They  rush  to  greet  it,  and,  sinking  deep  down  into  its  watery 
embrace,  lie  there  all  day  rocked  to  and  fro  by  the  restless 
ocean. 

From  the  hills  the  scent  of  the  heather  is  wafted  towards 
him,  filling  him  with  a  subtle  keen  sense  of  youth  and  glad- 
ness and  the  absolute  joy  of  living.  His  good  dog  is  at  his 
heels ;  a  boy — procured  from  some  neighboring  cabin,  and 
warranted  not  to  wear  out,  however  long  the  journey  to  be 
undertaken  or  how  many  the  miles  to  travel — carries  his  bag 
beside  him. 

Game  as  yet  is  not  exactly  plentiful :  neither  yesterday  nor 
the  day  before  could  it  be  said  that  birds  flocked  to  his  gun ; 
there  is,  indeed,  a  settled  uncertainty  as  to  whether  one  may 
or  may  not  have  a  good  day's  sport.  And  yet  perhaps  this 
very  uncertainty  gives  an  additional  excitement  to  the  game 

Here  and  there  a  pack  is  discovered,  so  unexpectedly  as  to 
be  doubly  welcome.  And  sometimes  a  friendly  native  will 
tell  him  of  some  quiet  corner  where  "  his  honor"  will  surely 
find  some  birds,  "  an'  be  able  in  the  evenin'  to  show  raison  for 
his  blazin'."     It  is  a  somewhat  wild  life,  but  a  pleasant  one, 

2 


14  MRS.  GEOFFREY. 

and  perhaps,  on  the  whole,  Mr.  Rodney  finds  Ireland  an  agree- 
able take-in,  and  the  inhabitants  of  it  by  no  means  as  eccen- 
tric or  as  bloodthirsty  as  he  has  been  led  to  believe.  He  has 
read  innumerable  works  on  the  Irish  peasantry,  calculated  to 
raise  laughter  in  the  breasts  of  those  who  claim  the  Emerald 
Isle  as  their  own, — works  written  by  people  who  have  never 
seen  Ireland,  or,  having  seen  it,  have  thought  it  a  pity  to  de- 
stroy the  glamour  time  has  thrown  oxer  it,  and  so  reduce  it  to 
commonplaceness. 

He  is,  for  instance,  surprised,  and  indeed  somewhat  relieved, 
when  he  discovers  that  the  drivers  of  the  jaunting-cars  that 
take  him  on  his  shooting-expeditions  are  not  all  modern  Joe 
Millers,  and  do  not  let  off  witty  remarks,  like  bomb- shells, 
every  two  minutes. 

He  is  perhaps  disappointed  in  that  every  Irish  cloak  docs 
not  conceal  a  face  beautiful  as  a  houri's.  And  he  learns  by 
degrees  that  only  one  in  ten  says  "  bedad,"  and  that  "  och, 
murther !"  is  an  expression  almost  extinct. 

They  appear  a  kindly,  gentle,  good-humored  people, — easily 
led,  no  doubt  (which  is  their  undoing),  but  generous  to  the 
heart's  core ;  a  people  who  can  speak  English  fluently  (though 
with  a  rich  brogue)  and  more  grammatically  than  the  Sassen- 
achs  themselves  (of  their  own  class),  inasmuch  as  they  respect 
their  aspirates  and  never  put  an  h  in  or  leave  one  out  in  the 
wrong  place. 

The  typical  Irishman,  in  whom  Lever  delighted,  with  his 
knee-breeches  and  long-tailed  coat,  his  pig  under  one  arm  and 
his  shillalah  under  the  other,  is  literally  nowhere  I  The  cau- 
been  and  the  dhudheen  which  we  are  always  hearing  about 
aaay  indeed  be  seen,  but  they  are  very  usual  objects  in  all 
lands,  if  one  just  alters  the  names,  and  scarcely  create  aston- 
ishment in  the  eyes  of  the  on-looker. 

The  dhudheen  is  an  institution,  no  doubt,  but  the  owner  of 
it,  as  a  rule,  is  not  to  be  found  seated  on  a  five-barred  gate, 
with  a  shamrock  pinned  in  his  hat  and  a  straw  in  his  mouth, 
singing  "  Rory  O'More"  or  "  Paddy  O'Rafferty,"  as  the  case 
may  be.  On  the  contrary,  poor  soul,  he  is  found  by  Geoffrey 
either  digging  up  his  potatoes  or  stocking  his  turf  for  winter 
use. 

Altogether,  things  are  very  disappointing ;  though  perhaps 
there  is  comfort  iu  the  thought  that  no  one  is  vraiting  round 


MRS.  GEOFFREY  15 

a  corner,  or  lying  perdu  in  a  ditch,  ready  to  smash  the  first 
comer  with  a  blackthorn  stick,  or  reduce  him  to  submission 
with  a  pike,  irrespective  of  cause  or  reason. 

Rodney,  with  the  boy  at  his  side,  is  covering  ground  in  a 
state  of  blissful  uncertainty.  He  may  be  a  mile  from  home, 
or  ten  miles,  for  all  he  knows,  and  the  boy  seems  none  the 
wiser. 

*'  Where  are  we  now  ?"  says  Geoffrey,  suddenly,  stopping 
and  facing  "  the  boy." 

"  I  don't  know,  sir." 

"  But  you  said  you  knew  the  entire  locality, — couldn't  be 
puzzled  within  a  radius  of  thirty  miles.  How  far  are  we 
from  home  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,  sir.  I  never  was  abroad  before,  an'  I'm 
dead  bate  now,  an'  the  bag's  like  lead." 

"  You're  a  nice  boy,  you  are  !"  says  Mr.  Rodney.  "  Here, 
give  me  the  bag  !  Perhaps  you  would  like  me  to  carry  you 
too  ;  but  I  shan't,  so  you  needn't  ask  me.    Are  you  hungry  ?" 

"  No,"  says  the  boy  valiantly ;  but  he  looks  hungry,  and 
Geoffrey's  heart  smites  him,  the  more  in  that  he  himself  is 
starving  likewise. 

"  Come  a  little  farther,"  he  says,  gently,  slinging  the  heavy 
bag  across  his  own  shoulders.  "  There  must  be  a  farm-house 
somewhere." 

There  is.  In  the  distance,  imbedded  in  trees,  lies  an  ex- 
tensive farmstead,  larger  and  more  home-like  than  any  he  has 
yet  seen. 

"  Now,  then,  cheer  up,  Paddy  !"  he  says  to  the  boy :  "  yon- 
der lies  an  oasis  in  our  howling  wilderness." 

Whereat  the  boy  smiles  and  grins  consumedly,  as  though 
charmed  with  his  companion's  metaphor,  though  in  reality  he 
understands  it  not  at  all. 

As  they  draw  still  nearer,  Geoffrey  becomes  aware  that  the 
farm-yard  before  him  is  rich  with  life.  Cocks  are  crowing, 
geese  are  cackling,  and  in  the  midst  of  all  this  life  stands  a 
girl  with  her  back  turned  to  the  weary  travellers. 

"  Wait  here,"  says  Geoffrey  to  his  squire,  and,  going  for 
ward,  rests  the  bag  upon  a  low  wall,  and  waits  until  the  girl  in 
question  shall  turn  her  head.  When  she  does  move  he  is  still 
silent,  for,  behold,  she  has  turned  his  head ! 

She  is  country  bred,  and  clothed  in  country  garments,  yet 


16  MRS.  GEOFFREY. 

her  beauty  is  too  great  to  be  deniable.  Sbe  is  not  "  divinely 
tall."  bat  rather  of  medium  height,  with  an  oval  face,  and  eyes 
of  "  heaven's  own  blue."  Their  color  changes  too,  and  deepens, 
and  darkens,  and  grows  black  and  purple,  as  doth  the  dome 
above  us.  Her  mouth  is  large,  but  gracious,  and  full  of 
laughter  mixed  with  truth  and  firmness.  There  is  no  feature 
that  can  so  truly  express  character  as  the  mouth.  The  eyea 
can  shift  and  change,  but  the  mouth  retains  its  expression 
always. 

She  is  clad  in  a  snowy  gown  of  simple  cotton,  that  sits 
loosely  to  her  lissom  figure  yet  fails  to  disguise  the  beauty  of 
it.  A  white  kerchief  lies  softly  on  her  neck.  She  has  pulled 
up  her  sleeves,  so  that  her  arms  are  bare, — her  round,  soft, 
naked  arms  that  in  themselves  are  a  perfect  picture.  She  is 
standing  with  her  head  well  thrown  back,  and  her  hands — full 
of  corn — lifted  high  in  the  air,  as  she  cries  aloud,  "  Cooee  I 
Cooee  !"  in  a  clear  musical  voice. 

Presently  her  cry  is  answered.  A  thick  cloud  of  pigeons — 
brown  and  white  and  bronze  and  gray — come  wheeling  into 
sight  from  behind  the  old  house,  and  tumble  down  upon  her 
in  a  reckless  fashion.  They  perch  upon  her  head,  her  shoul- 
ders, her  white  soft  arms,  even  her  hands,  and  one,  more  adven- 
turous than  the  rest,  has  even  tried  to  find  a  slippery  resting- 
place  upon  her  bosom. 

"  What  greedy  little  things  1"  cries  she  aloud,  with  the 
merriest  laugh  in  the  world.  "  Sure  you  can't  eat  more  than 
enough,  can  you  ?  an'  do  your  best !  Oh,  Brownie,"  reproach- 
fully, "  what  a  selfish  bird  you  are  I" 

Here  Geoffrey  comes  forward  quietly,  and  lifts  his  hat  to  her 
with  all  the  air  of  a  man  who  is  doing  homage  to  a  princess. 
It  has  occurred  to  him  that  perhaps  this  peerless  being  in  the 
cotton  gown  will  feel  some  natural  chagrin  on  being  discovered 
by  one  of  the  other  sex  with  her  sleeves  tucked  up.  But  in 
this  instance  his  knowledge  of  human  nature  receives  a  severe 
shock. 

Far  from  being  disconcerted,  this  farm-yard  goddess  is  not 
even  ashamed  (as  indeed  how  could  she  be  ?)  of  her  naked 
arms,  and,  coming  up  to  him,  rests  them  upon  the  upper  rung 
of  the  entrance-gate  and  surveys  him  calmly  if  kindly. 

"  What  can  I  do  for  you  ?"  she  asks,  gently. 

"  I  think,"  says  Geoffrey,  slightly  disconcerted  by  the  sweet 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  17 

feisure  of  her  gaze,  "  I  have  lost  my  way.     I  have  been  walk- 
ing since  sunri«f  and  I  want  you  to  tell  me  where  I  am." 

"  You  are  at  Mangle  Farm,"  returns  she.  Then,  judging 
by  the  blank  expression  on  his  fuce  that  her  words  bring  him 
no  comfort,  she  continues  with  a  smile,  "  That  doesn't  seem 
to  help  you  much,  does  it?" 

He  returns  her  smile  in  full, — veri/  full.  "T  confess  it 
doesn't  help  me  at  all,"  he  says.  "  Mangle  Farm,  I  am  sure, 
is  the  most  attractive  spot  on  earth,  but  it  tells  me  nothina; 
about  latitude  or  longitude.     Give  me  some  further  help." 

"  Then  tell  me  where  you  come  from,  and  perhaps  I  may 
be  able."  She  speaks  softly,  but  quickly,  as  do  all  the  Irish, 
and  with  a  brogue  musical  but  unmistakable. 

"  I  am  staying  at  a  shooting-lodge  called  Coolnagurtheen. 
Do  you  know  where  that  is?" 

"  Oh,  of  course,"  returns  she,  with  a  sudden  accession  of 
animation.  "  I  have  often  seen  it.  That  is  where  the  young 
English  gentleman  is  staying  for  the  shooting." 

"Quite  right.  And  I  am  the  young  English  gentleman," 
says  Geofifrey,  lifting  his  hat  again  by  way  of  introduction. 

"Indeed,  are  you?"  asks  she,  raising  her  pretty  brows. 
Then  she  smiles  involuntarily,  and  the  pink  flush  in  her 
rounded  cheeks  grows  a  shade  deeper.  Yet  she  does  not 
lower  her  eyes,  or  show  the  slightest  touch  of  confusion.  "  I 
might  have  guessed  it,"  she  says,  after  a  minute's  survey  of 
the  tall  gray-coated  young  man  before  her.  "  You  are  not  a 
bit  like  the  others  down  here." 

"  Am  I  not  ?"  says  he,  humbly,  putting  on  his  carefully 
crestfallen  air  that  has  generally  been  found  so  highly  success- 
ful.    "  Tell  me  my  fault." 

"  I  ^ill — when  I  find  it,"  returns  she,  with  an  irrepressiblo 
glance,  full  of  native  but  innocent  coquetry,  from  her  beauti- 
ful eyes. 

At  this  moment  one  of  the  pigeons — a  small,  pretty  thing, 
bronze-tinged — flies  to  her,  and,  resting  on  her  shoulder, 
makes  a  tender  cooing  sound,  and  picks  at  her  cheek  reproach- 
fully, as  though  imploring  more  corn. 

"Would  you  bite  me?"  murmurs  she,  fondly,  as  the  bird 
flies  off  again  alarmed  at  the  presence  of  the  tall  stranger,  who 
already  is  busy  comparing  most  f:\vorably  the  face  of  its  mis- 
tress with  the  faces  of  all  the  fashionable  beauties  London  has 
b  2* 


18  MRS.  GEOFFREY. 

been  raving  about  for  eighteen  months.  "  Every  morning 
thej  torment  mo  like  this,"  she  says,  turning  to  Geoffrey,  with 
a  lii.tle  pleasant  confidential  nod. 

"  He  looked  as  if  he  wanted  to  eat  you ;  and  I'm  sure  1 
don't  wonder  at  it,"  says  Geoffrey,  making  the  addition  to  his 
speech  in  a  lower  key. 

"  And  have  you  walked  from  Coolnagurtheen  this  morning  ? 
Why,  it  is  eight  miles  from  this,"  says  she,  taking  no  notice 
of  his  last  speech.     "  You  could  have  had  no  breakfast  I" 

"  Not  yet ;  but  I  suppose  there  must  be  a  village  near  here, 
and  an  inn,  and  I  want  you  to  direct  me  how  to  get  to  it.  I 
am  giving  you  a  great  deal  of  trouble,"  remorsefully,  "  but 
my  boy  knows  nothing." 

He  points  as  he  speaks  to  the  ignorant  Paddy,  who  is  sitting 
on  the  ground  with  his  knees  between  his  hands,  crooning  a 
melancholy  ditty. 

"  The  village  is  two  miles  farther  on.  I  think  you  had 
better  come  in  and  breakfast  here.  Uncle  will  be  very  glad 
to  see  you,"  she  says,  hospitably,     "  And  you  must  be  tired." 

He  hesitates.  He  is  tired,  and  hungry  too ;  there  is  no 
denying  it.  Even  as  he  hesitates,  a  girl  coming  out  to  the 
door-step  puts  her  hand  over  her  eyes,  and  shouts  pleasantly 
from  afar  to  her  mistress, — 

"  Miss  Mona,  come  in  ;  the  tay  will  be  cold,  an'  the  rashers 
all  spoiled,  an'  the  masther's  callin'  for  ye." 

"  Come,  hurry,"  says  Mona,  turning  to  Geoffrey,  with  a 
light  laugh  that  seems  to  spring  from  her  very  heart.  "  Would 
you  have  the  '  tay'  get  cold  while  you  are  making  up  your 
mind  ?     I  at  least  must  go." 

She  moves  from  him. 

"  Then  thank  you,  and  I  shall  go  with  you,  if  you  will 
allow  me,"  says  Geoffrey,  hurriedly,  as  he  sees  her  disappearing. 

"  Tell  your  boy  to  go  to  the  kitchen,"  says  Mona,  thought- 
fully, and,  Paddy  being  disposed  of,  she  and  Geoffrey  go  on 
to  the  house. 

They  walk  up  a  little  gravelled  path,  on  either  side  of  which 
trim  beds  of  flowers  are  cut,  bordered  with  stiff  box.  All 
Borts  of  pretty,  sweetly-smelling  old  wild  blossoms  are  bloom- 
ing in  them,  as  gayly  as  though  they  have  forgotten  the  fact 
that  autumn  is  rejoicing  in  all  its  matured  beauty.  Crimson 
and  white  and  purple  asters  stand  calmly  gazing  towards  the 


RlltS.  GEOFFREY.  19 

sky ;  here  a  flaming  fiichsia  droops  its  head,  and  there,  apart 
from  all  the  rest,  smiles  an  enchanting  rose. 

"That  like  a  virgin  queen  salutes  the  sun 
Dew-diadem'd." 

Behind  the  house  rises  a  thick  wood, — a  "  solemn  wood," 
such  as  Dickens  loved  to  write  of,  with  its  lights  and  shades 
and  ever-varying  tints.  A  gentle  wind  is  rushing  through  it 
now  ;  the  faint  murmur  of  some  "  hidden  brook,"  singing  its 
"  quiet  tune,"  falls  upon  the  ear  ;  some  happy  birds  are  warb- 
ling in  the  thickets.     It  is  a  day  whose  beauty  may  be  felt. 

"  I  have  no  card ;  but  my  name  is  Geoffrey  Rodney,"  says 
the  young  man,  turning  to  his  companion. 

"  And  mine  is  Mona  Scully,"  returns  she,  with  the  smile 
that  seems  part  of  her  lips,  and  which  already  has  engraven 
itself  on  Mr.  Rodney's  heart.  "  Now,  I  suppose,  we  know 
each  other." 

They  walk  up  two  steps,  and  enter  a  small  hall,  and  then 
he  follows  her  into  a  room  opening  off  it,  in  which  breakfast 
lies  prepared. 

It  is  in  Geoffrey's  eyes  a  very  curious  room,  unlike  any- 
thing he  has  ever  seen  before ;  yet  it  possesses  for  him  (per- 
haps for  that  very  reason)  a  certain  charm.  It  is  uncarpeted, 
but  the  boards  are  white  as  snow,  and  on  them  lies  a  fine 
sprinkling  of  dry  sand.  In  one  of  the  windows — whose  panea 
are  diamond-shaped — two  geraniums  are  in  full  flower ;  upon 
the  deep  seat  belonging  to  the  other  lie  some  books  and  a 
stocking  half  knitted. 

An  old  man,  rugged  but  kindly-featured,  rises  on  his  en- 
trance, and  gazes  at  him  expectantly.  Mona,  going  up  to 
him,  rests  her  hand  upon  his  arm,  and,  indicating  Geoffrey 
by  a  gesture,  says,  in  a  low  tone, — 

"  He  has  lost  his  way.  He  is  tired,  and  I  have  asked  him 
in  to  have  some  breakfast.  He  is  the  English  gentleman  who 
is  living  at  Coolnagurtheen." 

"  You're  kindly  welcome,  sir,"  says  the  old  man,  bowing 
with  the  slow  and  heavy  movement  that  belongs  to  the  aged. 
There  is  dignity  and  warmth,  however,  in  the  salute,  and 
Geoffrey  accepts  with  pleasure  the  toil-worn  hand  his  host 
presents  to  him  a  moment  later.  The  breakfast  is  good,  and, 
though  composed  of  only  country  fare    is  delicious  to  th« 


20  MRS.  GEOFFREY. 

young  man,  who  has  been  walking  since  dawn,  and  whose  ap- 
petite just  now  would  have  astonished  those  dwelling  in 
crowded  towns  and  living  only  on  their  excitements. 

The  house  is  homelike,  sweet,  and  one  which  might  perhaps 
day  by  day  grow  dearer  to  the  heart;  and  this  girl,  this  pretty 
creature  who  every  now  and  then  turns  her  eyes  on  Geoffrey, 
as  though  glad  in  a  kindly  fashion  to  see  him  there,  seems  a 
necessary  part  of  the  whole, — her  gracious  presence  rendering 
it  each  moment  sweeter  and  more  desirable.  "  My  precept  to 
all  who  build  is,"  says  Cicero,  "  that  the  owner  should  be  an 
ornament  to  the  house,  and  not  the  house  to  the  owner." 

Mona  pours  out  the  tea — which  is  excellent — and  puts  in 
the  cream — which  is  a  thing  to  dream  of — with  a  liberal 
hand.  She  smiles  at  Geoffrey  across  the  sugar-bowl,  and 
chatters  to  him  over  the  big  bowl  of  flowers  that  lies  in  the 
centre  of  the  table.  Not  a  hothouse  bouquet  faultlessly  ar- 
ranged, by  any  means,  but  a  great,  tender,  happy,  straggling 
bunch  of  flowers  that  seem  to  have  fallen  into  their  places  of 
their  own  accord,  regardless  of  coloring,  and  fill  the  room  with 
their  perfume. 

His  host  going  to  the  window  when  breakfast  is  at  an  end, 
Geoffrey  follows  him  ;  and  both  look  out  upon  the  little  gar- 
den before  them  that  is  so  carefully  and  lovingly  tended. 

"  It  is  all  her  doing,"  says  the  old  man, — "  Mona's,  I  mean. 
She  loves  those  flowers  more  than  anything  on  earth,  I  think. 
Her  mother  was  the  same ;  but  she  wasn't  half  the  lass  that 
Mona  is.  Never  a  mornin'  in  the  cowld  winter  but  she  goes 
out  there  to  see  if  the  frost  ha.sn't  killed  some  of  'em  the 
night  before." 

"  There  is  hardly  any  taste  so  charming  or  so  engrossing  as 
that  for  flowers,"  says  Geoffrey,  making  this  trite  little  speech, 
that  sounds  like  a  copy-book,  in  his  most  engaging  style. 
"  My  mother  and  cousin  do  a  great  deal  of  that  sort  of  thing 
when  at  home." 

"  Ay,  it  looks  pretty  and  gives  the  child  something  to  do." 
There  is  a  regretful  ring  in  his  tone  that  induces  Geoffrey  to 
ask  the  next  question. 

''  Does  she — does  Miss  Scully  find  country  life  unsatisfy- 
ing ?     Has  she  not  lived  here  always  ?" 

"  Law,  no,  sir,"  says  the  old  man,  with  a  loud  and  hearty 
laugh.     "  I  think  if  ye  could  see  the  counthry  girls  round 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  21 

here,  an'  compare  'em  with  my  Mona,  you'd  see  that  for  yer- 
Belf.  She's  aa  fine  as  the  queen  to  them.  Her  mother,  you 
see,  was  the  parson's  daughter  down  here ;  tip-top  she  was, 
and  party  as  a  fairy,  but  mighty  delicate;  looked  as  if  a 
March  wind  would  blow  her  into  heaven.  Dan — he  was  a 
brother  of  mine,  an'  a  solicitor  in  Dublin.  You've  been  there, 
belike?"' 

■'  Yes ;  I  stopped  there  for  two  or  three  days  on  my  way 
down  here.  Well — and — your  brother  ?"  He  cannot  to  him- 
self explain  the  interest  he  feels  in  this  story. 

"  Dan  ?  He  was  a  fine  man,  surely  ;  six  feet  in  his  stockin', 
he  was,  an'  eyes  like  a  woman's.  He  come  down  here  an'  met 
her,  an'  she  married  him.  Nothing  would  stop  her,  though 
the  parson  was  fit  to  be  tied  about  it.  An'  of  course  he  was 
no  match  for  her, — father  bein'  only  a  bricklayer  when  he  be- 
gan life, — but  still  I  will  say  Dan  was  a  fine  man,  an'  one  to 
think  about ;  an'  no  two  ways  in  him,  an'  that  soft  about  the 
heart.  He  worshipped  the  ground  she  walked  on ;  an'  four 
years  after  their  marriage  she  told  me  herself  she  never  had 
an  ache  in  her  heart  since  she  married  him.  That  was  fine 
tellin',  sir,  wasn't  it?  Four  years,  mind  ye.  Why,  when 
Mary  was  alive  (my  wife,  sir)  we  had  a  shindy  twice  a  week, 
reg'lar  as  clock-work.  We  wouldn't  have  known  ourselves 
without  it ;  but,  however,  that's  nayther  here  nor  there,"  says 
Mr.  Scully,  pulling  himself  up  short.  "  An'  I  ask  yer  pardon, 
sir,  for  pushing  private  matters  on  ye  like  this." 

"  But  you  have  interested  me,"  says  Geoff'rey,  seating  him- 
self on  the  broad  sill  of  the  window,  as  though  preparing  for 
a  long  dissertation  on  matters  still  unknown.  "  Pray  tell  me 
how  your  brother  and  his  lovely  wife — who  evidently  was  aa 
wise  and  true  as  she  was  lovely — got  on." 

Mr.  Rodney's  face  being  of  that  rare  kind  that  is  as  tender 
as  it  is  manly,  and  by  right  of  its  beauty  demands  confidence, 
the  old  man  (who  dearly  loves  his  own  voice)  is  encouraged  to 
proceed. 

"  They  didn't  get  on  for  long,"  he  says,  mournfully, — and 
what  voice  is  so  full  of  melancholy  as  the  Irish  voice  when  it 
sinks  into  sadness  ?  "  When  the  little  one — Mona — was  barely 
five  years  old,  they  went  to  ground  ;  Mount  Jerome  got  them. 
Fever  it  was  ;  and  it  carried  'em  both  off  just  while  ye'd  have 
time  to  look  round  ye.     Poor  souls,  they  went  to  the  blessed 


22  3/i2S.  GEOFFREY. 

land  together.  Perhaps  the  Holy  Virgin  knew  they  would 
have  got  on  badly  without  each  other  anywhere." 

"  And  the  child, — Miss  Mona?"  asks  Geoffrey. 

"  She  went  to  live  in  Anthrim  with  her  mother's  sister. 
Later  she  got  to  Dublin,  to  her  aunt  there, — another  of  the 
parson's  daughters, — who  married  the  Provost  in  Thrinity ;  a 
proud  sort  he  was,  an'  awful  tiresome  with  his  Greeks  an'  his 
Romans,  an'  not  the  height  of  yer  thumb,"  says  Mr.  Scully, 
with  ineffable  contempt.  "  I  went  to  Dublin  one  day  about 
cattle,  and  called  to  see  me  niece ;  an'  she  took  to  me,  bless 
her,  an'  I  brought  her  down  with  me  for  change  of  air,  for  her 
cheeks  were  whiter  than  a  fleece  of  wool,  an'  she  has  stayed 
ever  since.  Dear  soul  1  I  hope  she'll  stay  forever.  She  ia 
welcome." 

"  She  must  be  a  great  comfort  to  you,"  says  Geoffrey  from 
his  heart. 

"  She  is  that.  More  than  I  can  say.  An'  keeps  things  to- 
gether, too.  She  is  clever  like  her  father,  an'  he  was  on  the 
fair  way  to  make  a  fortune.  Ay,  I  always  say  it,  law  is  the 
thing  that  pays  in  Ireland.  A  good  sound  fight  sets  them  up. 
But  I'm  keeping  you,  sir,  and  your  gun  is  waitin'  for  ye.  If 
you  haven't  had  enough  of  me  company  by  this,"  with  another 
jolly  laugh,  "  I'll  take  ye  down  to  a  field  hard  by,  an'  show 
ye  where  I  saw  a  fine  young  covey  only  yesternight." 

"  I — I  should  like  to  say  good-by  to  Miss  Mona,  and  thank 
her  for  all  her  goodness  to  me,  before  going,"  says  the  young 
man,  rising  somewhat  slowly. 

"  Nay,  you  can  say  all  that  on  your  way  back,  an'  get  a 
half-shot  into  the  bargain,"  says  old  Scully,  heartily.  "  You'll 
hardly  beat  the  potheen  I  can  give  ye."  He  winks  knowingly, 
pats  Rodney  kindly  on  the  shoulder,  and  leads  the  way  out  of 
the  house.  Yet  I  think  Geoffrey  would  willingly  have  bar- 
tered potheen,  partridge,  and  a  good  deal  more,  for  just  one 
last  glance  at  Mona's  beautiful  face  before  parting.  Cheered, 
however,  by  the  prospect  that  he  may  see  her  before  night 
falls,  he  follows  the  farmer  into  the  open  air. 


MRS.  GEOFFREY  23 


CHAPTER  III. 

HOW   GEOPFKET's   heart   is   claimed   by   CUPID   AS   A 
TAEGET,   AND   HOW   MONA   STOOPS   TO   CONQUER. 

It  is  ten  days  later.  The  air  is  growinc;  brisker,  the  flowers 
bear  no  new  buds.  More  leaves  are  falling  on  the  woodland 
paths,  and  the  trees  are  throwing  out  their  last  bright  autumn 
tints  of  red  and  brown  and  richest  orange,  that  tell  all  too 
plainly  of  the  death  that  lies  before  them. 

Great  cascades  of  water  are  rushing  from  the  high  hills, 
tumbling,  hurrying,  with  their  own  melodious  music,  into  the 
rocky  basins  that  kind  Nature  has  built  to  receive  them.  The 
soothing  voices  of  the  air  are  growing  louder,  more  full  of 
strength ;  the  branches  of  the  elms  bow  down  before  them  ; 
the  gentle  wind,  a  "  sweet  and  passionate  wooer,"  kisses  the 
blushing  leaf  with  perhaps  a  fiercer  warmth  than  it  did  a 
month  agone. 

It  is  in  the  spring — so  we  have  been  told — that  "  a  young 
man's  fancy  lightly  turns  to  thoughts  of  love  ;"  yet  it  is  in  the 
autumn  that  our  young  man  takes  to  this  pleasing  if  somewhat 
unsatisfactory  amusement. 

Not  that  he  himself  is  at  all  aware  of  the  evil  case  into 
which  he  has  fallen.  He  feels  not  the  arrow  in  his  heart,  or 
the  tender  bands  that  slowly  but  surely  are  winding  themselves 
around  him, — steel  bands,  decked  out  and  hidden  by  perfumed 
flowers.  As  yet  he  feels  no  pang ;  and,  indeed,  were  any  one 
to  even  hint  at  such  a  thing,  he  would  have  laughed  aloud  at 
the  idea  of  his  being  what  is  commonly  termed  "  in  love.'' 

That  he — who  has  known  so  many  seasons,  and  passed 
through  the  practised  hands  of  some  of  the  prettiest  women 
this  world  can  afford,  heart-whole,  and  without  a  scratch — 
should  fall  a  victim  to  the  innocent  wiles  of  a  little  merry 
Irish  girl  of  no  family  whatever,  seems  too  improbable  even 
of  belief,  however  lovely  beyond  description  this  girl  may  be 
(and  is),  with  her  wistful,  laughing,  miscliievous  Irish  eyes, 
and  her  mobile  lips,  and  her  disposition  half  angelic,  half  full 
of  fire  and  natural  coquetry. 


24  MRS.  QEOFFREY. 

Beauty,  according  to  Ovid,  is  a  "  favor  bestowed  by  the 
gods;"  Theophrastus  says  it  is  "  a  silent  cheat;"  and  Shak- 
epeare  tells  us  it 

"  Is  but  a  vain  and  doubtful  good, 
A  shining  gloss  that  fadeth  suddenly, 
A  flower  that  dieth  when  first  it  'gins  to  bud. 
A  brittle  glass  that's  broken  presently, 
A  doubtful  good,  a  gloss,  a  glass,  a  flower, 
Lost,  faded,  broken,  dead  within  an  hour." 

Mere  beauty  of  form  and  feature  will  fade  indeed,  but 
Mana's  beauty  lies  not  altogether  in  nose  or  eyes  or  mouth, 
but  ratl.sr  in  her  soul,  which  compels  her  face  to  express  its 
lightest  meaning.  It  is  in  her  expression,  which  varies  with 
each  passing  thought,  changing  from  "grave  to  gay,  from 
lively  to  severe,"  as  the  soul  within  speaks  to  it,  that  her  chief 
charm  dwells.  She  is  never  quite  the  same  for  two  minutes 
running, — which  is  the  surest  safeguard  against  satiety.  And 
as  her  soul  is  pure  and  clean,  and  her  face  is  truly  the  index 
to  her  mind,  all  it  betrays  but  endears  her  to  and  makes  richer 
him  who  reads  it. 

"  Age  cannot  wither  her,  nor  custom  stale 
Her  infinite  variety." 

"Whenever  these  lines  come  to  me  I  think  of  Mona. 

It  is  mid-day,  and  Geoffrey,  gun  in  hand,  is  idly  stalking 
through  the  sloping  wood  that  rises  behind  Mangle  Farm. 
The  shooting  he  has  had  since  his  arrival  in  Ireland,  though 
desultory, — perhaps  because  of  it, — has  proved  delightful  in 
his  sight.  Here  coveys  come  upon  one  unawares,  rising  out 
of  fields  when  least  expected,  and  therefore  when  discovered 
possess  all  the  novelty  of  a  gigantic  surprise.  Now  and  then 
he  receives  kindly  warning  of  birds  seen  "  over-night"  in  some 
particular  corner,  and  an  offer  to  escort  him  to  the  scene  of 
action  without  beat  of  drum. 

As  for  instance,  in  the  morning  hi§  man  assails  him  with 
the  news  that  Mickey  Brian  or  Dinny  Collins  (he  has  grown 
quite  familiar  with  the  gentry  around)  "  is  without,  an'  would 
like  to  spake  wid  him."  Need  I  remark  that  he  has  wisely 
hired  his  own  particular  attendant  from  among  the  gay  and 
festive  youths  of  Bantry  ? 

Whereupon  he  goes  "  without,"  which  means  to  his  own 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  25 

nail-door  that  always  stands  wide  open,  and  there  acknowl- 
edges the  presence  of  Mickey  or  Dinny,  as  the  case  may  he, 
with  a  gracious  nod.  Mickey  instantly  removes  his  caubeen 
and  tells  "  his  honor"  (regardless  of  the  fact  that  his  honor 
can  tell  this  for  himself)  that  ''  it  is  a  gran'  fine  day,"  which 
as  a  rule  is  the  first  thing  an  Irish  person  will  always  say  on 
greeting  you,  as  though  full  of  thankfulness  to  the  powerH 
above,  in  that  sweet  weather  has  been  given. 

Then  follows  a  long-winded  speech  on  the  part  of  Mickey 
about  birds  in  general  and  grouse  in  particular,  finishing  up 
with  the  announcement  that  he  can  tell  where  the  finest  covey 
seen  this  season  lies  hidden. 

"  An'  the  biggest  birds,  an'  as  full  o'  corn  as  iver  ye  see, 
the  rogues !" 

At  this  his  honor  requests  Mickey  to  step  into  the  hall,  and 
with  his  own  hands  administers  to  him  a  glass  of  whiskey, 
which  mightily  plea.ses  the  son  of  Erin,  though  he  plainly 
feels  it  his  duty  to  make  a  face  at  it  as  he  swallows  it  off  neat. 
And  then  Geoffrey  sallies  forth  and  goes  for  the  promised 
covey,  followed  closely  by  the  excited  Mickey,  and,  having 
made  account  of  most  of  them,  presses  backsheesh  into  the 
hands  of  his  informant,  and  sends  him  home  rejoicing. 

For  the  most  part  these  bonnie  brown  birds  have  found 
their  way  into  Miss  Mona's  pantry,  and  are  eaten  by  that 
little  gourmand  with  the  rarer  pleasure  that  in  her  secret  heart 
she  knows  that  the  giver  of  them  is  not  blind  to  the  fact  that 
her  eyes  are  faultless  and  her  nose  pure  Greek. 

Just  at  this  moment  he  is  coming  down  through  brake  and 
furze,  past  tangling  blackberry-bushes  that  are  throwing  out 
leaves  of  brilliant  crimson  and  softest  yellow,  and  over  rust- 
ling leaves,  towards  the  farm  that  holds  his  divinity. 

Ill  luck  has  attended  his  efforts  to-day,  or  else  his  thoughts 
have  been  wandering  in  the  land  where  love  holds  sway,  be- 
cause he  is  empty-handed.  The  bonnie  brown  bird  has 
escaped  him,  and  no  gift  is  near  to  lay  at  Mona's  shrine. 

As  he  reaches  the  broad  stream  that  divides  him  from  the 
land  he  would  reach,  he  pauses  and  tries  to  think  of  any 
decent  excuse  that  may  enable  him  to  walk  with  a  bold  front 
up  to  the  cottage  door.  But  no  such  excuse  presents  itself. 
Memory  proves  false.  It  refuses  to  assist  him.  He  is  almost 
in  despair. 

B  3 


26  MRS.  OEOFFREY. 

He  tries  to  persuade  himself  that  there  is  nothing  strange 
or  uncommon  in  calling  upon  Wednesday  to  inquire  with 
anxious  solicitude  about  the  health  of  a  young  woman  whom 
he  had  seen  happy  and  robust  on  Tuesday.  But  the  trial  is 
not  successful,  and  he  is  almost  on  the  point  of  flinging  up 
the  argument  and  going  home  again,  when  his  eye  lights  upon 
a  fern  small  but  rare,  and  very  beautiful,  that,  growing  on  a 
high  rock  far  above  him,  overhangs  the  stream. 

It  is  a  fern  for  which  Mona  has  long  been  wishing.  Oh  I 
happy  thought !  She  has  expressed  for  it  the  keenest  ad- 
miration. Oh  I  blissful  remembrance  !  She  has  not  one  like 
it  in  all  her  collection.     Oh  1  certainty  full  of  rapture. 

Now  will  he  seize  this  blessed  opportunity,  and,  laden  with 
the  spoils  of  war,  approach  her  dwelling  (already  she  is  "  she"), 
and  triumphantly,  albeit  humbly,  lay  the  fern  at  her  feet,  and 
so  perchance  gain  the  right  to  bask  for  a  few  minutes  in  the 
sunshine  of  her  presence. 

No  sooner  thought  than  done  I  Laying  his  gun  carefully 
upon  the  ground,  he  looks  around  him  to  see  by  what  means 
he  shall  gain  possession  of  this  lucky  fern  which  is  growing, 
deeply  rooted  in  its  native  soil,  far  above  him. 

A  branch  of  a  tree  overspreading  the  water  catches  his  at- 
tention. It  is  not  strong,  but  it  suggests  itself  as  a  means  to 
the  desired  end.  It  is  indeed  slim  to  a  fault,  and  unsatisfac- 
tory to  an  alarming  degree,  but  it  must  do,  and  Geoffrey, 
swinging  himself  up  to  it,  tries  it  first,  and  then  standing 
boldly  upon  it,  leans  over  towards  the  spot  where  the  fern  can 
be  seen. 

It  is  rather  beyond  his  reach,  but  he  is  determined  not  to 
be  outdone.  Of  course,  by  stepping  into  the  water  and  climb- 
ing the  slimy  rock  that  holds  the  desired  treasure,  it  can  be 
gained;  but,  with  a  lazy  desire  to  keep  his  boots  dry,  he 
clings  to  his  present  position,  regardless  of  the  fact  that 
bruised  flesh  (if  nothing  worse)  will  probably  be  the  result  of 
his  daring. 

He  has  stooped  very  much  over  indeed.  His  hand  is  on 
the  fern ;  ho  has  safely,  carefully  extracted  it,  roots  and  all 
(one  would  think  I  was  speaking  of  a  tooth  I  but  this  is  by 
the  way),  from  its  native  home,  when  cr-r-k  goes  something ; 
the  branch  on  which  he  rests  betrays  him,  and  smashinf'  hurls 
him  head  downwards  into  the  swift  but  shallow  stream  belcw. 


MRS.  GEOFF  RET.  27 

A  very  charming  vision  clad  in  Oxford  shirting,  and  with 
a  great  white  hat  tied  beneath  her  rounded  chin  with  blue 
ribbons, — something  in  the  style  of  a  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds, 
— emerges  from  among  the  low-lying  firs  at  this  moment. 
Having  watched  the  (seemingly)  light  catastrophe  from  afar, 
and  being  apparently  amused  by  it,  she  now  gives  way  to  un- 
mistakable mirth  and  laughs  aloud.  When  Mona  laughs,  she 
does  it  with  all  her  heart,  the  correct  method  of  suppressing 
all  emotion,  be  it  of  joy  or  sorrow, — regarding  it  as  a  recreation 
permitted  only  to  the  vulgar, — being  as  yet  unlearned  by  her. 
Therefore  her  expression  of  merriment  rings  gayly  and  un- 
checked through  the  old  wood. 

But  presently,  seeing  the  author  of  her  mirth  does  not  rise 
from  his  watery  resting-place,  her  smile  fades,  a  little  fright- 
ened look  creeps  into  her  eyes,  and,  hastening  forward,  she 
reaches  the  bunk  of  the  stream  and  gazes  into  it.  Rodney  is 
lying  face  downwards  in  the  water,  his  head  having  come  with 
some  force  against  the  sharp  edge  of  a  stone  against  which  it 
is  now  resting. 

Mona  turns  deadly  pale,  and  then  instinctively  loosening 
the  strings  of  her  hat  flings  it  from  her.  A  touch  of  deter- 
mination settles  upon  her  lips,  so  prone  to  laughter  at  other 
times.  Sitting  on  the  bank,  she  draws  off  her  shoes  and 
stockings,  and  with  the  help  of  an  alder  that  droops  to  the 
river's  brim  lowers  herself  into  the  water. 

The  stream,  though  insignificant,  is  swift.  Placing  her 
BCrong  young  arms,  that  are  rounded  and  fair  as  those  of  any 
court  dame,  beneath  Rodney,  she  lifts  him,  and,  by  a  supreme 
effort,  and  by  right  of  her  fresh  youth  and  perfect  health, 
draws  him  herself  to  land. 

In  a  minute  or  two  the  whole  affair  proves  itself  a  very 
small  thing  indeed,  with  little  that  can  be  termed  tragical 
about  it.  Geoffrey  comes  slowly  back  to  life,  and  in  the  com- 
ing breathes  her  name.  Once  again  he  is  trying  to  reach  the 
distant  fern  ;  once  again  it  eludes  his  grasp.  He  has  it ;  no, 
he  hasn't ;  yes,  he  has.  Then  at  last  he  wakes  to  the  fact 
that  he  has  indeed  got  it  in  earnest,  and  that  the  blood  ia 
flowing  from  a  slight  wound  in  the  back  of  his  head,  which 
is  being  staunched  by  tender  fingers,  and  that  he  himself  is 
lying  in  Mona's  arms. 

He  sighs,  and  looks  straight  into  the  lovely  frightened  eyes 


28  MRS.  GEOFFREY. 

bending  over  him.  Then  the  color  comes  with  a  sudden  rush 
back  into  his  cheeks  as  he  tells  himself  she  will  look  upon  him 
as  nothing  less  than  a  "  poor  creature"  to  lose  consciousness 
and  behave  like  a  silly  girl  for  so  slight  a  cause.  And  some- 
thing else  he  feels.  Above  and  beyond  everything  is  a  sense 
of  utter  happiness,  such  as  he  has  never  known  before,  a 
thrill  of  rapture  that  has  in  it  something  of  peace,  and  that 
conies  from  the  touch  of  the  little  brown  hand  that  rests  so 
lightly  on  his  head. 

"  Do  not  stir.  Your  head  is  badly  cut,  an'  it  bleeds  still," 
says  Mona,  with  a  shudder.  "  I  cannot  stop  it.  Oh,  what 
shall  I  do?" 

"  Who  got  me  out  of  the  water  ?"  asks  he,  lazily,  pretend- 
ing (hypocrite  that  he  is)  to  be  still  overpowered  with  weak- 
ness.    "  And  when  did  you  come  ?" 

"  Just  now,"  returns  she,  with  some  hesitation,  and  a  rich 
accession  of  coloring,  that  renders  her  even  prettier  than  she 
was  a  moment  since.     Because 

"  From  every  blush  that  kindles  in  her  cheeks, 
Ten  thousand  little  loves  and  graces  spring." 

Her  confusion,  however,  and  the  fact  that  no  one  else  IB 
near,  betrays  the  secret  she  fain  would  hide. 

"Was  it  you?"  asks  he,  raising  himself  on  his  elbow  to 
regard  her  earnestly,  though  very  loath  to  quit  the  spot  where 
late  he  has  been  tenant.     "  You  ?     Oh,  Mona  I" 

It  is  the  first  time  he  has  ever  called  her  by  her  Christian 
name  without  a  prefix.  The  tears  rise  to  her  eyes.  Feeling 
herself  discovered,  she  makes  her  confession  slowly,  without 
looking  at  him,  and  with  an  air  of  indiflference  so  badly  as- 
sumed as  to  kill  the  idea  of  her  ever  attaining  eminence  upon 
the  stage. 

"  Yes,  it  was  I,"  she  says.  "  And  why  shouldn't  I  ?  Is 
it  to  see  you  drown  I  would  ?  I — I  didn't  want  you  to  find 
it  out ;  but" — quickly — "  I  would  do  the  same  for  any  one  at 
any  time.     You  know  that." 

"  I  am  sure  you  would,"  say^  Geofirey,  who  has  risen  to 
his  feet  and  has  taken  her  hand.  "  Nevertheless,  though,  as 
you  say,  I  am  but  one  in  the  crowd, — and,  of  course,  nothing 
to  you, — I  am  very  glad  you  did  it  for  me." 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  29 

With  a  little  touch  of  wilfulness,  perhaps  pride,  she  with- 
draws her  hand. 

"I  dare  say,"  she  says,  carelessly,  purposely  mistaking  hia 
meaning:  "  it  must  have  been  cold  lying  there." 

•'  There  are  things  that  chill  one  more  than  water,"  returns 
he,  slightly  offended  by  her  tone. 

"  You  are  all  wet.  Do  go  home  and  change  your  clothes," 
says  IMona,  who  is  still  sitting  on  the  grass  with  her  gowa 
spread  carefully  around  her.  "  Or  perhaps" — reluctantly — 
"  it  will  be  better  for  you  to  go  to  the  farm,  where  Bridget 
will  look  after  you." 

"  Thank  you ;  so  I  shall,  if  you  will  come  with  me." 

"  Don't  mind  me,"  says  Miss  Scully,  hastily.  "  I  shall  fol- 
low you  by  and  by." 

"  By  and  by  will  suit  me  down  to  the  ground,"  declares  he, 
easily.  "The  day  is  fortunately  warm  :  damp  clothes  are  an 
advantage  rather  than  otherwise." 

Silence.  Mona  taps  the  mound  beside  her  with  impatient 
fingers,  her  mind  being  evidently  great  with  thought. 

"  I  really  wish,"  she  says,  presently,  "  you  would  do  what 
I  say.     Go  to  the  farm,  and — stay  there." 

"  Well,  come  with  me,  and  I'll  stay  till  you  turn  me  out." 

"  I  can't,"  faintly. 

"  Why  not?"  in  a  surprised  tone. 

"  Because — I  prefer  staying  here." 

"  Oh  !  if  you  mean  by  that  you  want  to  get  rid  of  me,  you 
might  have  said  so  long  ago,  without  all  this  hinting,"  says 
Mr.  Rodney,  huffily,  preparing  to  beat  an  indignant  retreat. 

"  I  didn't  mean  that,  and  I  never  hint,"  exclaims  Mona, 
angrily  ;  "  and  if  you  insist  on  the  truth,  if  I  must  explain  to 
you  what  I  particularly  desire  to  keep  secret,  you " 

"  You  are  hurt !"  interrupts  he,  with  passionate  remorse. 
"  I  see  it  all  now.  Stepping  into  that  hateful  stream  to  save 
me,  you  injured  yourself  severely.  You  are  in  pain, — you 
Buffer  ;  whilst  I " 

"  I  am  in  no  pain,"  says  Mona,  crimson  with  shame  and 
mortification.  "  You  mistake  everything.  I  have  not  even  a 
scratch  on  me ;  and — I  have  no  shoes  or  stockings  on  me 
either,  if  you  must  know  all !" 

She  turns  from  him  wrathfully ;  and  Geoffrey,  disgusted 
with  himself,  steps  back  and  makes  no  reply.  With  any  other 

8* 


30  MRS.  GEOFFREY. 

woman  of  his  acquaintance  he  might  perhaps  at  this  juncture 
have  made  a  mild  request  that  he  might  be  allowed  to  assist 
in  the  lacing  or  buttoning  of  her  shoes ;  but  with  this  strange 
little  Irish  girl  all  is  diflFerent.  To  make  such  a  remark  would 
be,  he  feels,  to  offer  her  a  deliberate  insult. 

"  There,  do  go  away !"  says  this  woodland  goddess.  "  I  am 
sick  of  you  and  your  stupidity." 

"  I'm  sure  I  don't  wonder,"  says  Geoffrey,  very  humbly. 
"  I  beg  your  pardon  a  thousand  times ;  and — good-by.  Miss 
Mona." 

She  turns  involuntarily,  through  the  innate  courtesy  that 
belongs  to  her  race,  to  return  his  parting  salutation,  and,  look- 
ing at  him,  sees  a  tiny  spot  of  blood  trickling  down  his  fore- 
head from  the  wound  received  a  while  since. 

On  the  instant  all  is  forgotten, — chagrin,  shame,  shoes  and 
stockings,  everything  !  Springing  to  her  little  naked  feet,  she 
goes  to  him,  and,  raising  her  hand,  presses  her  handkerchief 
against  the  ugly  stain. 

"  It  has  broken  out  again !"  she  says,  nervously.  "  I  am  sure 
— I  am  certain — it  is  a  worse  wound  than  you  imagine.  Ah  I 
do  go  home,  and  get  it  dressed." 

"  But  I  shouldn't  like  any  one  to  touch  it  except  you," 
says  Mr.  Rodney,  truthfully.  "  Even  now,  as  your  fingers 
press  it,  I  feel  relief" 

"  Do  you  really  ?"  asks  Mona,  earnestly. 

«  Honestly,  I  do." 

"  Then  just  turn  your  back  for  one  moment,"  says  Mona, 
simply,  "  and  when  my  shoes  and  stockings  are  on  I'll  go 
home  with  you  an'  bathe  it.  Now,  don't  turn  round,  for  your 
life !" 

"'Is  thy  servant  a  dog,  that  he  should  do  this  thing?'" 
quotes  Mr.  Rodney ;  and,  Mona  having  got  into  her  shoes, 
she  tells  him  he  is  at  liberty  to  follow  her  across  the  rustic 
bridge  lower  down,  that  leads  from  the  wood  into  Mangle 
Farm. 

"  You  have  spoiled  your  gown  on  my  account,"  says  Geof- 
frey, surveying  her  remorsefully ;  "  and  such  a  pretty  gown, 
too.  I  don't  think  I  ever  saw  you  looking  sweeter  than  you 
look  to-day.  And  now  your  dress  is  ruined,  and  it  is  all  my 
fault !" 

"How  dare  you  find  a  defect  in  my  appearance?"  sajs 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  81 

Mona,  with  her  old  gay  laugh.  "  You  compel  me  to  retaliate. 
Just  look  at  yourself.  Did  you  ever  see  such  a  regular  pickle 
as  you  are?" 

In  truth  he  is.  So  when  he  has  acknowledged  the  melan- 
choly fact,  they  both  laugh,  with  the  happy  enjoyment  of 
youth,  at  their  own  discomfiture,  and  go  back  to  the  cottage 
good  friends  once  more. 

On  the  middle  of  the  rustic  bridge  before  mentioned  ho 
stops  her,  to  say,  unexpectedly, — 

"  Do  you  know  by  what  name  I  shall  always  call  you  in  my 
thoughts?" 

To  which  she  answers,  "  No.  How  should  I  ?  But  tell 
me." 

"  '  Bonnie  Lesley :'  the  poet  says  of  her  what  I  think  of 
you. 

"  And  what  do  you  think  of  me  ?"  She  has  grown  a  little 
pale,  but  her  eyes  have  not  left  his. 

"  To  see  her  is  to  love  her, 
And  love  but  her  forever  ; 
For  nature  made  her  what  she  is, 
And  ne'er  made  sic  anither," 

quotes  Geoflfrey,  in  a  low  tone,  that  has  something  in  it  almost 
startling,  so  full  is  it  of  deep  and  earnest  feeling. 

Mona  is  the  first  to  recover  herself. 

"  That  is  a  pretty  verse,"  she  says,  quietly.  "  But  I  do 
uot  know  the  poem.     I  should  like  to  read  it." 

Her  tone,  gentle  but  dignified,  steadies  him. 

"  I  have  the  book  that  contains  it  at  Coolnagurtheen,"  ha 
says,  somewhat  subdued.     "  Shall  I  bring  it  to  you  ?" 

"  Yes.  You  may  bring  it  to  me — to-morrow,"  returns  she, 
with  the  faintest  hesitation,  which  but  enhances  the  value  of 
the  permission,  whereon  his  heart  once  more  knows  hope  and 
content. 


3S  MRS.  OEOFFREY. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

HOW    GEOFFREY  AND    MONA    ENTER  A  CABIN  AND   SEE   ONE 
OF   THE   RESULTS   OF   PARNELl's   ELOQUENCE. 

But  when  to-morrow  comes  it  brings  to  him  a  very  differ- 
ent Mona  from  the  one  he  saw  yesterday.  A  pale  girl,  with 
great  large  sombrous  eyes  and  compressed  lips,  meets  him,  and 
places  her  hand  in  his  without  a  word. 

"  What  is  it  ?"  asks  he,  quick  to  notice  any  change  in  her. 

"  Oh  !  haven't  you  heard  ?"  cries  she.  "  Sure  the  country 
IS  ringing  with  it.  Don't  you  know  that  they  tried  to  shoot 
Mr.  Moore  last  night  ?" 

Mr.  Moore  is  her  landlord,  and  the  owner  of  the  lovely 
wood  behind  Mangle  Farm  where  Geoffrey  came  to  grief  yes- 
terday. 

"  Yes,  of  course ;  but  I  heard,  too,  how  he  escaped  his 
would-be  assassin." 

"  He  did,  yes ;  but  poor  Tim  Maloney,  the  driver  of  the 
car  on  which  he  was,  he  was  shot  through  the  heart,  instead 
of  him  !  Oh,  Mr.  Rodney,"  cries  the  girl,  passionate  emotion 
both  in  her  face  and  voice,  "  what  can  be  said  of  those  men 
who  come  down  to  quiet  places  such  as  this  was,  to  inflame 
the  minds  of  poor  ignorant  wretches,  until  they  are  driven  to 
bring  down  murder  on  their  souls  1  It  is  cruel.  It  is  unjust. 
And  there  seems  no  help  for  us.  But  surely  in  the  land  where 
justice  reigns  supreme,  retribution  will  fall  upon  the  right 
heads." 

"  I  quite  forgot  about  the  driver,"  says  Geoffrey,  beneath 
his  breath.  This  remark  is  unfortunate.  Mona  turns  upon 
liim  wrathfully. 

"  No  doubt,"  she  says,  scornfully.  "  The  gentleman  es- 
caped, the  man  doesn't  count  1  Perhaps,  indeed,  he  has  ful- 
filled his  mission  now  he  has  shed  his  ignoble  blood  for  his 
superior  !  Do  you  know  it  is  partly  such  thoughts  as  these 
that  have  driven  our  people  to  desperation  ?  One  law  for  the 
poor,  another  for  the  rich!  Friendship  for  the  great,  con- 
tempt for  the  needy." 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  33 

She  pauses,  catching  her  breath  with  a  little  sob. 

"  Who  is  uttering  seditious  language  now  ?"  asks  he,  re- 
proachfully. "  No,  you  wrong  me.  I  had,  indeed,  forgotten 
for  the  moment  all  about  that  unfortunate  driver.  You  miist 
remember  I  am  a  stranger  here.  The  peasants  are  unknown 
to  me.  I  cannot  be  expected  to  feel  a  keen  interest  in  eacn 
one  individually.  In  fact,  had  Mr.  3Ioore  been  killed  instead 
of  poor  Maloney,  I  shouldn't  have  felt  it  a  bit  the  more, 
though  he  was  the  master  and  the  other  the  man.  I  can  only 
sufter  with  those  I  know  and  love." 

The  "  poor  Maloney"  has  done  it.  She  forgives  him ; 
perhaps  because — sweet  soul — harshness  is  always  far  from 
her. 

"  It  is  true,"  she  says,  sadly.  "  I  spoke  in  haste  because 
my  heart  is  sore  for  my  country,  and  I  fear  for  what  we  may 
yet  live  to  see.  But  of  course  I  could  not  expect  you  to  feel 
with  me." 

This  cuts  him  to  the  heart. 

"  I  do  feel  with  you,"  he  says,  hastily.  "  Do  not  believe 
otherwise."  Then,  as  though  impelled  to  it,  he  says  in  a  low 
tone,  though  very  distinctly,  "  I  would  gladly  make  your  griefs 
mine,  if  you  would  make  my  joys  yours." 

This  is  a  handsome  offer,  all  things  considered,  but  Mona 
turns  a  deaf  ear  to  it.  She  is  standing  on  her  door-step  at 
this  moment,  and  now  descends  until  she  reaches  the  tiny 
gravelled  path. 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?"  asks  Rodney,  afraid  lest  his  last 
speech  has  offended  her.  She  has  her  hat  on, — a  big  Gains- 
borough hat,  round  which  soft  Indian  muslin  is  clinging,  and 
in  which  she  looks  notliing  less  than  adorable. 

"  To  see  poor  Kitty  Maloney,  his  widow.  Last  year  she 
was  my  servant.  This  year  she  married ;  and  now — here  is 
the  end  of  everything — for  her." 

"May  I  go  with  you?"  asks  he,  anxiously.  "These  are 
lawless  times,  and  I  dare  say  Maloney's  cabin  will  be  full  of 
roughs.  You  will  feel  happier  with  some  man  beside  you  whom 
you  can  trust." 

At  the  word  "  trust"  she  lifts  her  eyes  and  regards  him 
somewhat  steadfastly.  It  is  a  short  look,  yet  a  very  long  one, 
and  tells  more  than  she  knows.  Even  while  it  lasts  he  swears 
to  himself  an  oath  that  he  never  to  his  life's  end  breaks. 


34  MRS.  GEOFFREY. 

"  Come,  then,"  she  says,  slowly,  "  if  you  will.  Though  I 
am  not  afraid.  Why  should  I  be  ?  Do  you  forget  that  I  am 
one  of  themselves  ?     My  father  and  I  belong  to  the  people." 

She  says  this  steadily,  and  very  proudly,  with  her  head  held 
high,  but  without  looking  at  him  ;  which  permits  Geoffrey  to 
gaze  at  her  exhaustively.  There  is  an  unconscious  meaning 
in  her  words,  quite  clear  to  him.  She  is  of  "  the  people,"  he 
of  a  class  that  looks  but  coldly  upon  hers.  A  mighty  river, 
called  Caste,  rolls  between  them,  dividing  him  from  her.  But 
shall  it  ?  Some  hazy  thought  like  this  floats  through  his  brain. 
They  walk  on  silently,  scarcely  exchanging  a  syllable  one  with 
the  other,  until  they  come  within  sight  of  a  small  thatched 
house  built  at  the  side  of  the  road.  It  has  a  manure-heap  just 
in  front  of  it,  and  a  filthy  pool  to  its  left,  in  which  an  ancient 
sow  is  wallowing,  whilst  grunting  harmoniously. 

Two  people,  a  man  and  a  woman,  are  standing  together  some 
yards  from  the  cabin,  whispering,  and  gesticulating  violently, 
as  is  "their  nature  to." 

The  man,  seeing  Mona,  breaks  from  the  woman,  and  comes 
up  to  her. 

"  Go  back  again,  miss,"  he  says,  with  much  excitement. 
*'  They've  brought  him  home,  an'  he's  bad  to  look  at.  I've 
seed  him,  an'  it's  given  me  a  turn  I  won't  forget  in  a  hurry. 
Go  home,  I  tell  ye.  'Tis  a  sight  not  fit  for  the  eyes  of  the 
likes  of  you." 

"  Is  he  there?"  asks  Mona,  pointing  with  trembling  fingers 
to  the  house. 

"Ay,  where  else?"  answers  the  woman,  sullenly,  who  has 
joined  them.  "  They  brought  him  back  to  the  home  he  will 
never  rouse  again  with  step  or  voice.  'Tis  cold  he  is,  an'  silent 
this  day." 

"  Is — is  he  covered  ?"  murmurs  Mona,  with  difficulty,  grow- 
ing pale,  and  shrinking  backwards.  Instinctively  she  lays  her 
hand  on  llodney's  arm,  as  though  desirous  of  support.  He, 
laying  his  own  hand  upon  hers,  holds  it  in  a  warm  and  com- 
forting clasp. 

"  He's  covered,  safe  enough.  They've  throwed  an  ould 
sheet  over  him, — over  what  remains  of  him  this  cruel  day. 
Och,  wirra-wirra !"  cries  the  woman,  suddenly,  throwing  her 
hands  high  above  her  head,  and  giving  way  to  a  peculiar  long, 
Jow,  moaning  sound,  so  eerie,  so  full  of  wild  despair,  and  grief 


MRS.    GEOFFREY.  35 

past  aU  consolation,  as  to  make  the  blood  in  Rodney's  veins 
run  cold. 

"  Go  back  the  way  ye  came,"  says  the  man  airain,  with 
growing  excitement.  "  This  is  no  place  for  ye.  There  is  ill 
luck  in  yonder  house.  His  soul  won't  rest  in  peace,  sent  out 
of  him  like  that.  If  ye  go  in  now,  ye'll  be  soiTy  for  it.  'Tia 
a  thing  ye'll  be  thinkin'  an'  dhramin'  of  till  you'll  be  wishin' 
the  life  out  of  yer  cursed  body  !" 

A  little  foam  has  gathered  round  his  lips,  and  his  eyes  are 
wild.  Geoffrey,  by  a  slight  movement,  puts  himself  between 
Mona  and  this  man,  who  is  evidently  beside  himself  with  some 
inward  fear  and  horror. 

*'  What  are  ye  talkin'  about?  Get  out,  ye  spalpeen,"  says 
the  woman,  with  an  outward  show  of  anger,  but  a  warning 
frown  meant  for  the  man  alone.  "  Let  her  do  as  she  likes. 
Is  it  spakin'  of  fear  ye  are  to  Dan  Scully's  daughter?" 

"  Come  home,  Mona ;  be  advised  by  me,"  says  Geoffrey, 
gently,  as  the  man  skulks  away,  walking  in  a  shambling,  un- 
certain fashion,  and  with  a  curious  trick  of  looking  every  now 
and  then  over  his  shoulder,  as  though  expecting  to  see  an 
unwelcome  follower. 

"  No,  no  ;  this  is  not  a  time  to  forsake  one  in  trouble,"  says 
Mona,  faithfully,  but  with  a  long,  shivering  sigh.  "  1  need 
see  nothing,  but  I  must  speak  to  Kitty." 

She  walks  deliberately  forward  and  enters  the  cabin,  Geof- 
frey closely  following  her. 

A  strange  scene  presents  itself  to  their  expectant  gaze. 
Before  them  is  a  large  room  (if  so  it  can  be  called),  possessed 
of  no  flooring  but  the  bare  brown  earth  that  Mother  Nature 
has  supplied.  To  their  right  is  a  huge  fireplace,  where,  upon 
the  hearth-stone,  turf  lies  burning  dimly,  emitting  the  strong 
aromatic  perfume  that  belongs  to  it.  Near  it  crouches  an  old 
woman  with  her  blue-checked  apron  thrown  above  her  head, 
who  rocks  herself  to  and  fro  in  silent  grief,  and  with  every 
long-drawn  breath — that  seems  to  break  from  her  breast  like 
a  stormy  wave  upon  a  desert  shore — brings  her  old  withered 
palms  together  with  a  gesture  indicative  of  despair. 

Opposite  to  her  is  a  pig.  sitting  quite  erect,  and  staring  at 
her  blankly,  without  the  slightest  regard  to  etiquette  or  nice 
feeling.  He  is  plainly  full  of  anxiety,  yet  without  power  to 
express  it,  except  in  so  far  as  his  tail  may  aid  him,  which  is 


86  ^fliS.  GEOFFREY. 

limp  and  prostrate,  its  very  curl  being  a  thing  of  the  past. 
If  any  man  has  impugned  the  sagacity  of  pigs,  that  nan  haa 
erred ! 

In  the  background,  partly  hidden  by  the  gathering  gloom, 
some  fifteen  men,  and  one  or  two  women,  are  all  huddled  to- 
gether, whispering  eagerly,  with  their  faces  almost  touching. 
The  women,  though  in  a  great  minority,  are  plainly  having 
the  best  of  it. 

But  Mona's  eyes  see  nothing  but  one  object  only. 

On  the  right  side  of  the  fireplace,  lying  along  the  wall,  is 
a  rude  stretcher, — or  what  appears  to  be  such, — on  which, 
shrouded  decently  in  a  white  cloth,  lies  something  that  chills 
with  mortal  fear  the  heart,  as  it  reminds  it  of  that  to  which 
we  all  some  day  must  come  1  Beneath  the  shroud  the  mur- 
dered man  lies  calmly  sleeping,  his  face  smitten  into  the  mar- 
ble smile  of  death. 

Quite  near  to  the  poor  corpse,  a  woman  sits,  young,  appa- 
rently, and  with  a  handsome  figure,  though  now  it  is  bent  and 
bowed  with  grief.  She  is  dressed  in  the  ordinary  garb  of  the 
Irish  peasant,  with  a  short  gown  well  tucked  up,  naked  feet, 
and  the  sleeves  of  her  dress  pushed  upwards  until  they  almost 
reach  the  shoulder,  showing  the  shapely  arm  and  the  small 
hand  that,  as  a  rule,  belong  to  the  daughters  of  Erin  and  be- 
tray the  existence  of  the  Spanish  blood  that  in  days  gone  by 
mingled  with  theirs. 

Her  face  is  hidden ;  it  is  lying  on  her  arms,  and  they  are 
cast,  in  the  utter  recklessness  and  abandonment  of  her  grief, 
across  the  feet  of  him  who,  only  yesterday,  had  been  her 
"  man," — her  pride  and  her  delight. 

Just  as  Mona  crosses  the  threshold,  a  man,  stepping  from 
among  the  group  that  lies  in  shadow,  approaching  the 
stretcher,  puts  forth  his  hand,  as  though  he  would  lift  the 
sheet  and  look  upon  what  it  so  carefully  conceals.  But  the 
woman,  springing  like  a  tigress  to  her  feet,  turns  upon  him, 
and  waves  him  back  with  an  imperious  gesture. 

"Lave  him  alone!"  cries  she;  "  take  yer  hands  ofi"  him  I 
He's  dead,  as  ye  well  know,  the  whole  of  ye.  There's  no 
more  ye  can  do  to  him.  Then  lave  his  poor  body  to  the  wo- 
man whose  heart  is  broke  for  the  want  of  him  1" 

The  man  draws  back  hurriedly,  and  the  woman  once  more 
Biuks  back  into  her  forlorn  position. 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  37 

"  Kitty,  can  I  do  anything  for  you  ?"  asks  Mona,  in  a  gen- 
tle whisper,  bending  over  her  and  taking  the  hand  that  lies  in 
her  lap  between  both  her  own,  with  a  pressure  full  of  gentle 
sympathy.  "  I  know  there  is  nothing  I  can  say  ;  but  can  I 
do  nothing  to  comfort  you?" 

"  Thank  ye,  miss.  Ye  mane  it  kindly,  I  know,"  says  the 
woman,  wearily.  "  But  the  big  world  is  too  small  to  hold  one 
dhrop  of  comfort  for  me.     He's  dead,  ye  see !" 

The  inference  is  full  of  saddest  meaning.  Even  Geofirey 
feels  the  tears  rise  unbidden  to  his  eyes. 

"  Poor  poul !  poor  soul !"  says  Mona,  brokenly ;  then  she 
drops  her  hand,  and  the  woman,  turning  again  to  the  lifeless 
body,  as  though  in  the  poor  cold  clay  lies  her  only  solace,  lets 
her  head  fall  forward  upon  it. 

Mona,  turning,  confronts  the  frightened  group  in  the  cor- 
ner, both  men  and  women,  with  a  face  changed  and  aged  by 
grief  and  indignation. 

Her  eyes  have  grown  darker ;  her  mouth  is  stern.  To 
Rodney,  who  is  watching  her  anxiously,  she  seems  positively 
transformed.  What  a  terrible  power  lies  within  her  slight 
frame  to  feel  both  good  and  evil  1  What  sad  days  may  rest 
in  store  for  this  girl,  whose  face  can  whiten  at  a  passing  griev- 
ance, and  whose  hands  can  tremble  at  a  woe  in  which  only  a 
dependant  is  concerned  I  Both  sorrow  and  joy  must  be  to 
her  as  giants,  strong  to  raise  or  lower  her  to  highest  elevations 
or  lowest  depths. 

"  Oh,  what  a  day  is  this !"  cries  she,  with  quivering  lips. 
*'  See  the  ruin  you  have  brought  upon  this  home,  that  only 
yestermorn  was  full  of  life  and  gladness !  Is  this  what  hag 
come  of  your  Land  League,  and  your  Home  Rulers,  and  your 
riotous  meetings  ?  Where  is  the  soul  of  this  poor  man,  who 
was  hurried  to  his  last  account  without  his  priest,  and  with- 
out a  prayer  for  pardon  on  his  lips  ?  And  how  shall  the  man 
who  slew  him  dare  to  think  on  his  own  soul  ?" 

No  one  answers  ;  the  very  moanings  of  the  old  crone  in  the 
chimney-corner  are  hushed  as  the  clear  young  voice  rings 
through  the  house,  and  then  stops  abruptly,  as  though  ita 
owner  is  overcome  with  emotion.  The  men  move  back  a 
little,  and  glance  uneasily  and  with  some  fear  at  her  from 
under  their  brows. 

"  Oh,  the  shameful  thought  that  all  the  world  should  be 
4 


38  MRS.  GEOFFREY. 

looking  at  us  with  horror  and  disgust,  as  a  people  too  foul  for 
anything  but  annihilation  1  And  what  is  it  you  hope  to  gain 
by  all  this  madness?  Do  you  believe  peace,  or  a  blessing 
from  the  holy  heavens,  could  fall  and  rest  on  a  soil  soaked  in 
blood  and  red  with  crime  ?  I  tell  you  no  ;  but  rather  a  curso 
will  descend,  and  stay  with  you,  that  even  Time  itself  will  bo 
powerless  to  lift." 

Again  she  pauses,  and  one  of  the  men,  shuffling  his  feet 
nervously,  and  with  his  eyes  bent  upon  the  floor,  says,  in  a 
husky  tone, — 

"  Sure,  now,  you're  too  hard  on  us,  Miss  Mona.  We're 
innocent  of  it.  Our  hands  are  clean  as  yer  own.  We  nivir 
laid  eyes  on  him  since  yesterday  till  this  blessid  minit.  Ye 
should  remember  that,  miss." 

"  I  know  what  you  would  say  ;  and  yet  I  do  denounce  you 
all,  both  men  and  boys, — yes,  and  the  women  too, — because, 
though  your  own  actual  hands  may  be  free  of  blood,  yet  know- 
ing the  vile  assassin  who  did  this  deed  there  is  not  one  of  you 
but  would  extend  to  him  the  clasp  of  good-fellowship  and 
shield  him  to  the  last, — a  man  who,  fearing  to  meet  another 
face  to  face,  must  needs  lie  in  ambush  for  him  behind  a  wall, 
and  shoot  his  victim  without  giving  him  one  chance  of  escape  1 
Mr.  Moore  walks  through  his  lands  day  by  day,  unprotected 
and  without  amis :  why  did  this  man  not  meet  him  there, 
and  fight  him  fairly,  to  the  death,  if,  indeed,  he  felt  that  for 
the  good  of  his  country  he  should  die  1  No  !  there  was  danger 
in  that  thought,"  says  Mona,  scornfully :  "  it  is  a  safer  thing 
to  crouch  out  of  sight  and  murder  at  one's  will." 

"  Then  why  does  he  persecute  the  poor  ?  We  can't  live ; 
yet  he  won't  lower  the  rints,"  says  a  sullen  voice  from  the 
background. 

"  He  did  lower  them.  He,  too,  must  live ;  and,  at  all 
events,  no  persecution  can  excuse  murder,"  says  Mona,  un- 
daunted. "  And  who  was  so  good  to  you  as  Mr.  Moore  last 
winter,  when  the  famine  raged  round  here  ?  Was  not  his 
house  open  to  you  all  ?  Were  not  many  of  your  children  fed 
by  him  ?  But  that  is  all  forgotten  now  :  the  words  of  a  few 
incendiaries  have  blotted  out  the  remembrance  of  years  of 
Bteady  friendship.  Gratitude  lies  not  with  you.  I,  who  am 
one  of  you,  waste  my  time  in  speaking.  For  a  very  little 
matter  you  would  shoot  me  too,  no  doubt  I" 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  39 

This  last  remark,  being  in  a  degree  ungenerous,  causes  a 
sensation.  A  young  man,  stepping  out  from  the  confusion, 
Bays,  very  earnestly, — 

"  I  don't  think  ye  have  any  call  to  say  that  to  us,  Miss 
Mona.  'Tisn't  fair  like,  when  ye  know  in  yer  own  heart 
that  we  love  the  very  sight  of  ye,  and  the  laste  sound  of  yer 
voice  1" 

Mona,  though  still  angered,  is  yet  somewhat  softened  by 
this  speech,  as  might  any  woman.  Her  color  fades  again,  and 
heavy  tears,  rising  rapidly,  quench  the  fire  that  only  a  moment 
since  made  her  large  eyes  dark  and  passionate. 

"Perhaps  you  do,"  she  says,  sadly.  "And  I,  too,— you 
know  how  dear  you  all  are  to  me ;  and  it  is  just  that  that 
makes  my  heart  so  sore.  But  it  is  too  late  to  warn.  The 
time  is  past  when  words  might  have  availed." 

Turning  sorrowfully  away,  she  drops  some  silver  into  the 
poor  widow's  lap ;  whereon  Geoffrey,  who  has  been  standing 
close  to  her  all  the  time,  covers  it  with  two  sovereigns. 

"  Send  down  to  the  Farm,  and  I  will  give  you  some 
brandy,"  says  Mona  to  a  woman  standing  by,  after  a  length- 
ened gaze  at  the  prostrate  form  of  Kitty,  who  makes  no  sign 
of  life.  "She  wants  it."  Laying  her  hand  on  Kitty's 
shoulder,  she  shakes  her  gently.  "  Rouse  yourself,"  she 
says,  kindly,  yet  with  energy.  "  Try  to  think  of  something, 
— anything  except  your  cruel  misfortune." 

"  I  have  only  one  thought,"  says  the  woman,  sullenly,  "  1 
can't  betther  it.  An'  that  is,  that  it  was  a  bitther  day  when 
first  I  saw  the  light." 

Mona,  not  attempting  to  reason  with  her  again,  shakes  her 
head  despondingly,  and  leaves  the  cabin  with  Geoffrey  at  her 
side. 

For  a  little  while  they  are  silent.  He  is  thinking  of 
Mona ;  she  is  wrapped  in  remembrance  of  all  that  has  just 
passed.  Presently,  looking  at  her,  he  discovers  she  is  crying, 
— bitterly,  though  quietly.  The  reaction  has  set  in,  and  the 
tears  are  running  quickly  down  her  cheeks. 

"  Mona,  it  has  all  been  too  much  for  you,"  exclaims  he, 
with  deep  concern. 

"  Yes,  yes  ;  that  poor,  poor  woman  !  I  cannot  get  her  face 
out  of  my  head.  How  forlorn  !  how  hopeless  I  She  has  lost 
all  she  cared  for;  there  is  nothing  to  fall  back  upon.     She 


40  MRS.  O  EOF  FRET. 

loved  him ;  and  to  have  him  so  cruelly  murdered  for  no 
crime,  and  to  know  that  he  will  never  again  come  in  the  door, 
or  sit  by  her  hearth,  or  light  his  pipe  by  her  fire, — oh,  it  is 
horrible  1  It  is  enough  to  kill  her  1"  says  Mona,  somewhat 
disconnectedly. 

"  Time  will  soften  her  grief,"  says  Rodney,  with  an  attempt 
at  soothing.  "  And  she  is  young ;  she  will  marry  again,  and 
form  new  ties." 

"  Indeed  she  will  not  1"  says  Mona,  indignantly.  "  Irish 
peasants  very  seldom  do  that.  She  will,  I  am  sure,  be  faithful 
forever  to  the  memory  of  the  man  she  loved." 

"  Is  that  the  fashion  here?  If — if  ^^ou  loved  a  man,  would 
you  be  faithful  to  him  forever  ?" 

"  But  how  could  I  help  it  ?"  says  Mona,  simply.  "  Oh, 
what  a  wretched  state  this  country  is  in  !  turmoil  and  strife 
from  morning  till  night.  And  yet  to  talk  to  those  very  peo- 
ple, to  mix  with  them,  they  seem  such  courteous,  honest, 
lovable  creatures !" 

"  I  don't  think  the  gentleman  in  the  flannel  jacket,  who 
spoke  about  the  reduction  of  '  rints,'  looked  very  lovable," 
says  Mr.  Rodney,  without  a  suspicion  of  a  smile ;  "  and — I 
suppose  my  sight  is  failing — but  I  confess  I  didn't  see  much 
courtesy  in  his  eye  or  his  upper  lip.  I  don't  think  I  ever 
saw  so  much  upper  lip  before,  and  now  that  I  have  seen  it  1 
don't  admire  it.  I  shouldn't  single  him  out  as  a  companion 
for  a  lonely  road.     But  no  doubt  I  wrong  him." 

"  Larry  Doolin  is  not  a  very  pleasant  person,  I  acknowledge 
that,"  says  Mona,  regretfully ;  "  but  he  is  only  one  among  a 
number.  And  for  the  most  part,  I  maintain,  they  are  both 
kind  and  civil.  Do  you  know,"  with  energy,  "  after  all  I  be- 
lieve England  is  most  to  blame  for  all  this  evil  work  ?  We 
are  at  heart  loyal :  you  must  agree  with  me  in  this,  when  you 
remember  how  enthusiastically  they  received  the  queen  when, 
years  ago,  she  condescended  to  pay  us  a  flying  visit,  never  to 
be  repeated.  And  how  gladly  we  welcomed  the  Prince  of 
Wales,  and  how  the  other  day  all  Ireland  petted  and  made 
much  of  the  Duke  of  Connaught  I  I  was  in  Dublin  when  he 
was  there ;  and  I  know  there  was  no  feeling  towards  him  but 
loyalty  and  affection.  I  am  sure,"  earnestly,  "  if  you  asked 
him  he  would  tell  the  same  story." 

"  I'll  ask  him  the  very  moment  I  see  him,"  says  Geoflfrey, 


MRS.   OEOFFREY.  41 

With  empressement.     "  Nothing  shall  prevent  me.     And  I'll 
telegraph  his  answer  to  you." 

"  We  should  be  all  good  subjects  enough,  if  things  were  on 
a  friendlier  footing,"  says  Moua,  too  absorbed  in  her  own 
grievance  to  notice  Mr.  Kodney's  suppressed  but  evident  en- 
joyment of  her  conversation.  "  But  when  you  despise  us, 
you  lead  us  to  hate  you." 

"  I  never  heard  such  awful  language,"  says  Rodney.  "  To 
ttill  me  to  my  face  that  you  hate  me.  Oh,  Miss  Mona  I  How 
have  I  merited  such  a  speech  ?" 

"  You  know  what  I  mean,"  says  Mona,  reproachfully. 
"  You  needn't  pretend  you  don't.  And  it  is  quite  true  that 
England  does  despise  us." 

"  What  a  serious  accusation  !  and  one  I  think  slightly  un- 
founded. We  don't  despise  this  beautiful  island  or  its  people. 
We  even  admit  that  you  possess  a  charm  to  which  we  can  lay 
no  claim.  The  wit,  the  verve,  the  pure  gayety  that  springs 
direct  from  the  heart  that  belongs  to  you,  we  lack.  We  are 
a  terribly  prosy,  heavy  lot,  capable  of  only  one  idea  at  a  time. 
How  can  you  say  we  despise  you  ?" 

"  Yes,  you  do,"  says  Mona,  with  a  little  obstinate  shake  of 
her  head.     "  You  call  us  dirty,  for  one  thing." 

"  Well,  but  is  that  altogether  a  falsehood  ?  Pigs  and  smoke 
and  live  fowls  and  babies  are,  I  am  convinced,  good  things  in 
their  own  way  and  when  well  at  a  distance.  But,  under  the 
roof  with  one  and  in  an  apartment  a  few  feet  square,  I  don't 
think  I  seem  to  care  about  them,  and  I'm  sure  they  can't  tend 
towards  cleanliness." 

"  I  admit  all  that.  But  how  can  they  help  it,  when  they 
have  no  money  and  when  there  are  always  the  dear  children  ? 
I  dare  say  we  are  dirty,  but  so  are  other  nations,  and  no  one 
sneers  at  them  as  they  sneer  at  us.  Are  we  dirtier  than  the 
canny  Scots  on  whom  your  queen  bestows  so  much  of  her 
society  ?     Tell  me  that !" 

There  is  triumph  in  her  eye,  and  a  malicious  sparkle,  and 
just  a  touch  of  rebellion. 

"  What  a  little  patriot !"  says  Rodney,  pretending  fear,  and 
stepping  back  from  her.  "  Into  what  dangerous  company 
have  I  fallen!  And  with  what  an  accent  you  say  '■your 
queen' !  Do  you  then  repudiate  her  ?  Is  she  not  yours 
as  well  ?     Do  you  refiise  to  acknowledge  her  ?" 

4* 


42  MRS.  GEOFFREY. 

"  Why  should  I  ?  She  never  comes  near  us,  never  takes 
the  least  notice  of  us.  She  treats  us  as  though  we  were  a 
detested  branch  grafted  on,  and  causing  more  trouble  than  we 
are  worth,  yet  she  will  not  let  us  go." 

"  1  don't  wonder  at  that.  If  I  were  the  queen  I  should 
not  let  you  go  either.  And  so  you  throw  her  over  ?  Unhappy 
queen  1  I  do  not  envy  her,  although  she  sits  upon  so  great  a 
throne.  I  would  not  be  cast  off  by  you  for  the  wealth  of  all 
the  Indies." 

"  Oh,  you  are  my  friend,"  says  Mona,  sweetly.  Then,  re- 
turning to  the  charge,  "  Perhaps  after  all  it  is  not  so  much 
her  fault  as  that  of  others.  Evil  counsellors  work  mischief  in 
all  ages." 

"  'A  Daniel  come  to  judgment !'  So  sage  a  speech  is  won- 
derful from  one  so  young.  In  my  opinion,  you  ought  to  go 
into  Parliament  yourself,  and  advocate  the  great  cause.  Is  it 
with  the  present  government  that  you  find  fault? 

"A  government  which,  knowing  not  true  wisdom, 
Is  scorned  abroad,  and  lives  on  tricks  at  home  ?" 

says  Mr.  Rodney,  airing  his  bit  of  Dryden  with  conscious 
pride,  in  that  it  fits  in  so  nicely.  "  At  all  events,  you  can't 
call  it 

'  A  council  made  of  such  as  dare  not  speak, 
And  could  not  if  they  durst,' 

because  your  part  of  it  takes  care  to  make  itself  heard." 

"  How  I  wish  it  didn't  1"  says  Mona,  with  a  sigh. 

The  tears  are  still  lingering  on  her  lashes ;  her  mouth  is 
sad.  Yet  at  this  instant,  even  as  Geoffrey  is  gazing  at  her 
and  wondering  how  he  shall  help  to  dispel  the  cloud  of  sorrow 
that  sits  upon  her  brow,  her  whole  expression  changes.  A 
merry  gleam  comes  into  her  wet  eyes,  her  lips  widen  and  lose 
their  lachrymose  look,  and  then  suddenly  she  throws  up  her 
head  and  breaks  into  a  gay  little  laugh. 

"  Did  you  see  the  pig,"  she  says,  "  sitting  up  by  the  fire- 
place ?  All  through  I  couldn't  take  my  eyes  off  him.  He 
struck  me  as  so  comical.  There  he  sat  blinking  his  small 
eyes  and  trying  to  look  sympathetic.  I  am  convinced  he 
knew  all  about  it.     I  never  saw  so  solemn  a  pig." 

She  laughs  again  with  fresh  delight  at  her  own  thoughtb 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  43 

That  pip  in  the  cabin  had  come  back  to  her,  filling  her  with 
amusement.  Geoffrey  regards  her  with  puzzled  eyes.  "What 
a  strange  temperament  is  this,  where  smiles  and  tears  can 
mingle ! 

"  What  a  curious  child  you  are  !"  he  says,  at  length.  "  You 
are  never  the  same  for  two  minutes  together." 

"  Perhaps  that  is  what  makes  me  so  nice,"  retorts  Miss 
Mona,  saucily,  the  sense  of  fun  still  full  upon  her,  making 
him  a  small  grimace,  and  bestowing  upon  him  a  bewitching 
glance  from  under  her  long  dark  lashes,  that  lie  like  shadows 
on  her  cheeks. 


CHAPTER  V. 


HOW  MONA  BETRAYS  WHAT  MAKES  GEOFFREY  JEALOUS, 
AND  HOW  AN  APPOINTMENT  IS  MADE  THAT  IS  ALL  MOON- 
SHINE. 

"  Yes,  it  certainly  is  a  charm,"  says  Geoffrey,  slowly,  "  but 
it  puzzles  me.  I  cannot  be  gay  one  moment  and  sad  the  next. 
Tell  me  how  you  manage  it." 

"  I  can't,  because  I  don't  know  myself.  It  is  my  nature. 
However  depressed  I  may  feel  at  one  instant,  the  next  a  pass- 
ing thought  may  change  my  tears  into  a  laugh.  Perhaps  that 
is  why  we  are  called  fickle ;  yet  it  has  nothing  to  do  with  it : 
it  is  a  mere  peculiarity  of  temperament,  and  a  rather  merciful 
gift,  for  which  we  should  be  grateful,  because,  though  we  re- 
turn again  to  our  troubles,  still  the  moment  or  two  of  forget- 
fulness  soothes  us  and  nerves  us  for  the  conflict.  I  speak,  of 
course,  of  only  minor  sorrows :  such  a  grief  as  poor  Kitty's 
admits  of  no  alleviation.     It  will  last  for  her  lifetime." 

"  Will  it  ?"  says  Geoffrey,  oddly. 

"  Yes.  One  can  understand  that,"  replies  she,  gravely,  not 
heeding  the  closeness  of  his  regard.  "  Many  things  affect  me 
curiously,"  she  goes  on,  dreamily, — "  sad  pictures  and  poetry, 
and  the  sound  of  sweet  music." 

"  Do  you  sing  ?"  asks  he,  through  mere  force  of  habit,  as 
ehe  pauses. 

"  Yes." 


44  MRS.  OEOFFREY. 

The  answer  is  so  downright,  so  unlike  the  usual  "  a  little," 
or  "oh,  nothing  to  signify,"  or  "just  when  there  is  nobody 
else,"  and  so  on,  that  Geoffrey  is  rather  taken  aback. 

"  I  am  not  a  musician,"  she  goes  on,  evenly,  "  but  soma 
people  admire  my  singing  very  much.  In  Dublin  they  liked 
to  hear  me,  when  I  was  with  Aunt  Anastasia ;  and  you  know 
a  Dublin  audience  is  very  critical." 

"  But  you  have  no  piano  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  have :  aunty  gave  me  hers  when  I  was  leaving 
town.  It  was  no  use  to  her,  and  I  loved  it.  I  was  at  school 
in  Portarlington  for  nearly  three  years,  and  when  I  came  back 
from  it  I  didn't  care  for  Anastasia's  friends,  and  found  my 
only  comfort  in  my  music.  I  am  telling  you  everything,  am 
I  not,"  with  a  wistful  smile,  "  and  perhaps  I  weary  you  ?" 

"  Weary  me  !  no,  indeed.  That  is  one  of  the  very  few 
unkind  things  you  have  ever  said  to  me.  How  could  I  weary 
of  your  voice  ?  Go  on  ;  tell  me  where  you  keep  this  magical 
piano." 

"  In  my  own  room.  You  have  not  seen  that  yet.  But  it 
belongs  to  myself  alone,  and  I  call  it  my  den,  because  in  it  I 
keep  everything  that  I  hold  most  precious.  Some  time  I  will 
show  it  to  you." 

"  Show  it  to  me  to-day,"  says  he,  with  interest. 

"  Very  well,  if  you  wish." 

"  And  you  will  sing  me  something  ?" 

"  If  you  like.     Are  you  fond  of  singing?" 

"  Very.  But  for  myself  I  have  no  voice  worth  hearing.  1 
sing,  you  know,  a  little,  which  is  my  misfortune,  not  my  fault ; 
don't  you  think  so?" 

"  Oh,  no  ;  because  if  you  can  sing  at  all — that  is,  correctly, 
and  without  false  notes — you  must  feel  music  and  love  it." 

"  Well,  for  my  part  I  hate  people  who  sing  a  little.  I 
always  wish  it  was  even  less.  I  hold  that  they  are  a  social  nui- 
sance, and  ought  to  be  put  down  by  law.  My  eldest  brother 
Nick  sings  really  very  well, — a  charming  tenor,  you  know, 
good  enough  to  coax  the  birds  off  the  bushes.  He  does  all 
that  sort  oi  dilettante  business, — paints,  and  reads  tremendously 
about  things  dead  and  gone,  that  can't  possibly  advantage 
anybody.  Understands  old  china  as  well  as  most  people 
(which  isn't  saying  much),  and  I  think — but  as  yet  this  state* 
ment  is  unsupported — I  think  he  writes  poetry." 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  45 

"  Does  he  really  ?"  asks  Mona,  with  eyes  wide  open.  "I 
am  sure  if  I  ever  meet  your  brother  Nick  I  shall  be  dreadfully 
afraid  of  him." 

"  Don't  betray  me,  at  all  events.  He  is  a  touchy  sort  of 
fellow,  and  mightn't  like  to  think  I  knew  that  about  him. 
Jack,  my  second  brother,  sings  too.  He  is  coming  home  from 
India  directly,  and  is  an  awfully  good  sort,  though  I  think  I 
should  rather  have  old  Nick  after  all." 

"  You  have  two  brothers  older  than  you  ?"  asks  Mona, 
meditatively. 

"  Yes ;  I  am  that  most  despicable  of  all  things,  a  third 
son." 

"  I  have  heard  of  it.  A  third  son  would  be  poor,  of  course, 
and — and  worldly  people  would  not  think  so  much  of  him  as 
of  others.     Is  that  so?" 

She  pauses.  But  for  the  absurdity  of  the  thing,  ]Mr.  Rod- 
ney would  swear  there  is  hope  in  her  tone. 

"  Your  description  is  graphic,"  he  answers,  lightly,  "  if 
faintly  unkind;  but  when  is  the  truth  civil?  You  are  right. 
Younger  sons,  as  a  rule,  are  not  run  after.  Mammas  do  not 
hanker  after  them,  or  give  them  their  reserve  smiles,  or  pull 
their  skirts  aside  to  make  room  for  them  upon  small  ottomans." 

"  That  betrays  the  meanness  of  the  world,"  says  Mona, 
slowly  and  with  indignation.  Has  not  Geoffrey  just  declared 
himself  to  be  a  younger  son  ? 

"  Does  it  ?  I  was  bred  in  a  different  belief.  In  my  world 
the  mighty  do  no  wrong ;  and  a  third  son  is  nowhere.  He  is 
shunted ;  handed  on  ;  if  possible,  scotched.  The  sun  is  not 
made  for  kim,  or  the  first  waltz,  or  caviare,  or  the  '  sweet 
shady  side'  of  anything.  In  fact,  he  is  '  the  man  of  no  ac- 
count' with  a  vengeance !" 

"  What  a  shame !"  says  Mona,  angrily.  Then  she  changes 
her  note,  and  says,  with  a  soft,  low,  mocking  laugh,  "  How  I 
pity  you  1" 

"  Thanks.  I  shall  try  to  believe  you,  though  your  mirth  is 
somewhat  out  of  place,  and  has  a  tendency  towards  heartless- 
ness."  (He  is  laughiuir  too.)  "  Yet  there  have  been  in- 
stances," goes  on  Mr.  Rodney,  still  smiling,  while  watching 
her  intently,  "  when  maiden  aunts  have  taken  a  fancy  to  third 
eons,  and  have  died  leaving  them  lots  of  tin." 

"  Eh  ?"  says  Mona. 


46  MRS.  GEOFFREY. 

*'  Tin, — money,"  explains  he. 

"  Oh,  I  dare  say.  Yes,  sometimes ;  but — "  she  hesitates, 
and  this  time  the  expression  of  her  face  cannot  be  misunder- 
stood :  dejection  betrays  itself  in  every  line — "  but  it  is  not  so 
with  you,  is  it  ?     No  aunt  has  left  you  anything  ?" 

"  No, — no  aunt,"  returns  Rodney,  speaking  the  solemn  truth, 
yet  conveying  a  lie :  "  I  have  not  been  blessed  with  maiden 
aunts  wallowing  in  coin." 

"  So  I  thought,"  exclaims  Mona,  with  a  cheerful  nod,  that 
under  other  circumstances  should  be  aggravating,  so  full  of 
content  it  is.  "  At  first  I  fea — I  thoug-ht  you  were  rich,  but 
afterwards  I  guessed  it  was  your  brothers'  ground  you  were 
shooting  over.  And  Bridget  told  me,  too.  She  said  you 
could  not  be  well  off,  you  had  so  many  brothers.  But  I  like 
you  all  the  better  for  that,"  says  Mona,  in  a  tone  that  actually 
savors  of  protection,  slipping  her  little  brown  hand  through 
his  arm  in  a  kindly,  friendly,  lovable  fashion. 

"  Do  you  ?"  says  Bodney.  He  is  strangely  moved ;  he 
speaks  quietly,  but  his  heart  is  beating  quickly,  and  Cupid's 
dart  sinks  deeper  in  its  wound. 

"  Is  your  brother,  Mr.  Kodney,  like  you  ?"  asks  Mona,  pres- 
ently. 

He  has  never  told  her  that  his  eldest  brother  is  a  baronet. 
Why  he  hardly  knows,  yet  now  he  does  not  contradict  her 
when  she  alludes  to  him  as  Mr.  Rodney.  Some  inward  feeling 
prevents  him.  Perhaps  he  understands  instinctively  that  such 
knowledge  will  but  widen  the  breach  that  already  exists  be- 
tween him  and  the  girl  who  now  walks  beside  him  with  a 
happy  smile  upon  her  flower-like  face. 

"  No  ;  he  is  not  like  me,"  he  says,  abruptly  :  "  he  is  a  much 
better  fellow.  He  is,  besides,  tall  and  rather  lanky,  with  dark 
eyes  and  hair.  He  is  like  my  father,  they  tell  me  ;  I  am  like 
my  mother." 

At  this  Mona  turns  her  gaze  secretly  upon  him.  She  studies 
his  hair,  his  gray  eyes,  his  irregular  nose, — that  ought  to  have 
known  better, — and  his  handsome  mouth,  so  resolute,  yet  so 
tender,  that  his  fair  moustache  only  half  conceals.  The  world 
in  general  acknowledges  Mr.  Rodney  to  be  a  well-looking 
young  man  of  ordinary  merits,  but  in  Mona's  eyes  he  is  some- 
thing more  than  all  this ;  and  I  believe  the  word  "  ordinary," 
as  applied  to  him,  would  sound  ofl'ensive  in  her  ears. 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  47 

"  I  think  I  should  like  your  mother,"  she  says,  naively  and 
very  sweetly,  lifting  her  eyes  steadily  to  his.  "  She  is  hand- 
some, of  course ;  and  is  she  good  as  she  is  beautiftil  ?" 

Flattery  goes  a  long  way  with  most  men,  but  in  this  in- 
etance  the  subtle  poison  touches  Mr.  Kodney  even  more  than 
it  pleases  him.  He  presses  the  hand  that  rests  upon  his  arm 
an  eighth  of  an  inch  nearer  to  his  heart  than  it  was  before,  if 
that  be  possible. 

"  My  mother  is  a  real  good  sort  when  you  know  her,"  he 
says,  evasively  ;  "  but  she's  rather  rough  on  strangers.  How- 
ever, she  is  always  all  there,  you  know,  so  far  as  manners  go, 
and  that." 

Miss  Mona  looks  puzzled. 

"  I  don't  think  I  understand  you,"  she  says,  at  length, 
gravely.  "  Where  would  the  rest  of  her  be,  if  she  wasn't  all 
in  the  same  place  ?" 

She  says  this  in  such  perfect  good  faith  that  Mr.  Rodney 
roars  with  laughter. 

"  Perhaps  you  may  not  know  it,"  says  he,  "  but  you  aro 
simply  perfection  !" 

"  So  Mr.  Moore  says,"  returns  she,  smiling. 

Had  she  put  out  all  her  powers  of  invention  with  a  view  to 
routing  him  with  slaughter,  she  could  not  have  been  more 
successful  than  she  is  with  this  small  unpremeditated  speech. 
Had  a  thunderbolt  fallen  at  his  feet,  he  could  not  have  be- 
trayed more  thorough  and  complete  discomfiture. 

He  drops  her  arm,  and  looks  as  though  he  is  prepared  to 
drop  her  acquaintance  also,  at  a  moment's  notice. 

"  What  has  Mr.  Moore  to  do  with  you  ?''  he  asks,  haughtily. 
•'  Who  is  he,  that  he  should  so  speak  to  you  ?" 

"  He  is  our  landlord,"  says  Mona,  calmly,  but  with  uplifted 
brows,  stopping  short  in  the  middle  of  the  road  to  regard  him 
with  astonishment. 

"  And  thinks  you  perfection  ?"  in  an  impossible  tone,  losing 
both  his  head  and  his  temper  completely.  "  He  is  rich,  I 
suppose  ;  why  don't  you  marry  him  ?" 

Mona  turns  pale. 

*'  To  ask  the  question  is  a  rudeness,"  she  says,  steadily, 
though  her  heart  is  cold  and  hurt.  "  Yet  I  will  answer 
you.  In  our  country,  and  in  our  class,"  with  an  amount 
of  inborn  pride  impossible  to  translate,  "we  do  not  marry  a 


48  MRS.  GEOFFREY. 

man  because  he  ia  '  rich,'  or,  in  other  words,  sell  ourselves  for 
gold." 

Having  said  this,  she  turns  her  back  upon  him  contemptu- 
ously, and  walks  towards  her  home. 

He  follows  her,  full  of  remorse  and  contrition.  Her  glance, 
even  more  than  her  words,  has  covered  him  with  shame,  and 
cured  him  of  his  want  of  generosity. 

"Forgive  me,  Mona,"  he  says,  with  deep  entreaty.  "I 
confess  my  fault.  How  could  I  speak  to  you  as  I  did  I  I 
implore  your  pardon.  Great  a  sinner  as  I  am,  surely  I  shall 
not  knock  for  forgiveness  at  your  sweet  heart  in  vain  1" 

"  Do  not  ever  speak  to  me  like  that  again,"  says  Mona, 
turning  upon  him  eyes  humid  with  disappointment,  yet  free 
from  wrath  of  any  kind.  "  As  for  Mr.  Moore,"  with  a  curl 
of  her  short  upper  lip  that  it  does  him  good  to  see,  and  a 
quick  frown,  "  why,  he  is  as  old  as  the  hills,  and  as  fat  as 
Tichborne,  and  he  hasn't  got  a  single  hair  on  his  head  1" 

But  that  Mr.  Rodney  is  still  oppressed  with  the  fear  that 
he  has  mortally  offended  her,  he  could  have  laughed  out  loud 
at  this  childish  speech ;  but  anxiety  helps  him  to  restrain  his 
mirth.  Nevertheless  he  feels  an  unholy  joy  as  he  thinks  on 
Mr.  Moore's  bald  pate,  his  "too,  too  solid  flesh,"  and  his 
"  many  days." 

"  Yet  he  dares  to  admire  you  ?"  is  what  he  does  say,  after 
a  decided  pause. 

"  Sure  they  all  admire  me,"  says  Miss  Mona,  with  an  ex- 
asperating smile,  meant  to  wither. 

But  Mr.  Rodney  is  determined  "  to  have  it  out  with  her," 
as  he  himself  would  say,  before  consenting  to  fade  away  out 
of  her  sight. 

"  But  he  wants  to  marry  you.  I  know  he  does.  Tell  mo 
the  truth  about  that,"  he  says,  with  flattering  vehemence. 

•'  Certainly  I  shall  not.  It  would  be  very  mean,  and  I 
wonder  at  you  to  ask  the  question,"  says  Mona,  with  a  great 
show  of  virtuous  indignation.  "  Besides,"  mischievously,  "  if 
you  know,  there  is  no  necessity  to  tell  you  anything." 

"  Yet  answer  me,"  persists  he,  very  earnestly. 

"  I  can't,"  says  Mona:  "  it  would  be  very  unfair;  and  be- 
sides," petulantly,  "  it  is  all  too  absurd.  Why,  if  Mr.  Moore 
were  to  ask  me  to  marry  him  ten  thousand  times  again,  I 
ehould  never  say  anything  but  '  no.'  " 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  49 

Unconsciously  she  has  betrayed  herself.  He  hears  the 
word  "  again"  with  a  strange  sinking  of  the  heart.  Others, 
then,  are  desirous  of  claiming  this  wild  flower  for  their  own. 

"  Oh,  Mona,  do  you  mean  that?"  he  says.  But  Mona,  who 
is  very  justly  incensed,  declines  to  answer  him  with  civility. 

"  I  begin  to  think  our  English  cousins  are  not  famous  for 
their  veracity,'i<  she  says,  with  some  scorn.  "  You  seem  to 
doubt  every  one's  word  ;  or  is  it  mine  in  particular  ?  Yet  I 
spoke  the  truth.     I  do  not  want  to  marry  any  one." 

Here  she  turns  and  looks  him  full  in  the  face ;  and  some- 
thing— it  may  be  in  the  melancholy  of  his  expression — so 
amuses  her  that  (laughter  being  as  natural  to  her  lips  as  per- 
fume to  a  flower)  she  breaks  into  a  sunny  smile,  and  holds 
out  to  him  her  hand  in  token  of  amity. 

"  How  could  you  be  so  absurd  about  that  old  Moore?"  she 
says,  lightly.  "  Why,  he  has  got  nothing  to  recommend  him 
except  his  money ;  and  what  good,"  with  a  sigh,  "  does  that 
do  him,  unless  to  get  him  murdered  I" 

"  If  he  is  as  fat  as  you  say,  he  will  be  a  good  mark  for  a 
bullet,"  says  Mr.  Rodney,  genially,  almost — I  am  ashamed  to 
say — hopefully.  "  I  should  think  they  would  easily  pot  him 
one  of  these  dark  nights  that  are  comiug.  By  this  time  I 
suppose  he  feels  more  like  a  grouse  than  a  man,  eh  ? — '  I'll 
die  game'  should  be  his  motto." 

"  I  wish  you  wouldn't  talk  like  that,"  says  Mona,  with  a 
shudder.  "  It  isn't  at  all  nice  of  you ;  and  especially  when 
you  know  how  miserable  I  am  about  my  poor  country." 

"  It  is  a  pity  anything  should  be  said  against  Ireland,"  says 
Rodney,  cleverly  ;  "  it  is  such  a  lovely  little  spot." 

"  Do  you  really  Hke  it?"  asks  she,  plainly  delighted. 

"  I  should  rather  think  so.  Who  wouldn't  ?  I  went  to 
GlengariflTe  the  other  day,  and  can  hardly  fancy  anything  more 
lovely  than  its  pure  waters,  and  its  purple  hills  that  lie  con- 
tinued in  the  depths  beneath." 

"  I  have  been  there.  And  at  Killarney,  but  only  once, 
though  we  live  so  near." 

"  That  has  nothing  to  do  with  it,"  says  Rodney.  "  The 
easier  one  can  get  to  a  place  the  more  one  puts  off  going.  I 
knew  a  fellow  once,  and  he  lived  all  his  time  in  London,  and 
I  give  you  my  word  he  had  never  seen  the  Crystal  Palace. 
With  whom  did  you  go  to  Killarney?" 
c       d  A 


60  MRS.  OEOFFRET. 

*'  With  Lady  Mary.  She  was  staying;  at  the  castle  there ; 
it  was  last  year,  and  she  asked  me  to  go  with  her.  I  was  de- 
lighted. And  it  was  so  pleasant,  and  everything  so — so  like 
heaven.  The  lakes  are  delicious,  so  calm,  so  solitary,  so  full 
of  thought.  Lady  Mary  is  old,  but  young  in  manner,  and  has 
read  and  travelled  so  much,  and  she  likes  me,"  says  Mona, 
naively.     "  And  I  like  her.     Do  you  know  her  ?" 

"  Lady  Mary  Crighton  ?  Yes,  I  have  met  her.  An  old 
lady  with  corkscrew  ringlets,  patches,  and  hoops  ?  She  is  quite 
grande  dame,  and  witty,  like  all  you  Irish  people." 

"  She  is  very  seldom  at  home,  but  I  think  I  like  her  better 
than  any  one  I  ever  met." 

"  Do  you  ?"  says  Geoffrey,  in  a  tone  that  means  much. 

"  Yes, — better  than  all  the  women  I  ever  met,"  corrects 
Mona,  but  without  placing  the  faintest  emphasis  upon  the  word 
"  women,"  which  omission  somehow  possesses  its  charm  in 
Rodney's  eyes. 

"  Well,  I  shall  go  and  judge  of  Killarney  myself  some  day," 
he  says,  idly. 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  must  indeed,"  says  the  little  enthusiast, 
brightening.  "  It  is  more  than  lovely.  How  I  wish  I  could 
go  with  you !" 

She  looks  at  him  as  she  says  this,  fearlessly,  honestly,  and 
without  a  suspicion  of  coquetry. 

"  I  wish  you  could  !"  says  Geoffrey  from  his  heart. 

"  Well,  I  can't,  you  know,"  with  a  sigh.  "  But  no  matter : 
you  will  enjoy  the  scenery  even  more  by  yourself." 

"  I  don't  think  I  shall,"  says  Geoffrey,  in  a  low  tone. 

"  Well,  we  have  both  seen  the  bay,"  says  Mona,  cheerfully,—  - 
"  Bantry  Bay,  I  mean  :  so  we  can  talk  about  that.  Yet  in- 
deed"— seriously — "  you  cannot  be  said  to  have  seen  it  prop- 
erly, as  it  is  only  by  moonlight  its  full  beauty  can  be  appre- 
ciated. Then,  with  its  light  waves  sparkling  beneath  the  gleam 
of  the  stars,  and  the  moon  throwing  a  path  across  it  that  seems 
to  go  on  and  on,  until  it  reaches  heaven,  it  is  more  satisfying 
than  a  happy  dream.  Do  you  see  that  hill  up  yonder?" 
pointing  to  an  elevation  about  a  mile  distant :  "  there  I  some- 
times sit  when  the  moon  is  full,  and  watch  the  bay  below. 
There  is  a  lovely  view  from  that  spot." 

"  I  wish  I  could  see  it !"  says  Geoffrey,  longingly. 

"  Well,  so  you  can,"  returns  she,  kindly.     "  Any  night  when 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  51 

there  is  a  good  moon  come  to  me  and  I  will  go  with  you  to 
Carrickdhuve — that  is  the  name  of  the  hill — and  show  you 
the  bay." 

She  looks  at  him  quite  calmly,  as  one  might  who  sees  noth- 
ing in  the  fact  of  accompanying  a  young  man  to  the  top  of  a 
high  mountain  after  nightfall.  And  in  truth  she  does  see 
nothing  in  it.  If  he  wishes  to  see  the  bay  she  loves  so  well, 
of  course  he  must  see  it ;  and  who  so  competent  to  point  out 
to  him  all  its  beauties  as  herself? 

"  I  wonder  when  the  moon  will  be  full,"  says  Geoffrey, 
making  this  ordinary  remark  in  an  every- day  tone  that  does 
him  credit,  and  speaks  well  for  his  kindliness  and  delicacy  of 
feeling,  as  well  as  for  his  power  of  discerning  character.  He 
makes  no  well-turned  speeches  about  the  bay  being  even  more 
enchanting  under  such  circumstances,  or  any  orthodox  com- 
pliment that  might  have  pleased  a  woman  versed  in  the  world's 
ways. 

"  We  must  see,"  says  Mona,  thoughtfully. 

They  have  reached  the  farm  again  by  this  time,  and  Geof- 
frey, taking  up  the  gun  he  has  left  behind  the  hall-door, — or 
what  old  Scully  is  pleased  to  call  the  front  door  in  contradis- 
tinction to  the  back  door,  through  which  he  is  in  the  habit  of 
making  his  exits  and  entrances, — holds  out  his  hand  to  bid 
her  good-by. 

"  Come  in  for  a  little  while  and  rest  yourself,"  says  Mona, 
hospitably,  "  while  I  get  the  brandy  and  send  it  up  to  poor 
Kitty." 

It  strikes  Geoffrey  as  part  of  the  innate  sweetness  and  gen- 
uineness of  her  disposition  that,  after  all  the  many  changes  of 
thought  that  have  passed  through  her  brain  on  their  return 
journey,  her  first  concern  on  entering  her  own  doors  is  for  the 
poor  unhappy  creature  in  the  cabin  up  yonder. 

"  Don't  be  long,"  he  says,  impulsively,  as  she  disappears 
down  a  passage. 

"  I  won't,  then.  Sure  you  can  live  alone  with  yourself  for 
one  minute,"  returns  she,  in  very  fine  Irish  ;  and,  with  a  part- 
ing smile,  sweet  as  nectar  and  far  more  dangerous,  she  goes. 

When  she  is  gone,  Geoffrey  walks  impatiently  up  and  down 
the  small  hall,  conflicting  emotions  robbing  him  of  the  serenity 
that  usually  attends  his  footsteps.  He  is  happy,  yet  full  of  a 
secret  gnawing  uneasiness  that  weighs  upon  him  daily,  hourly. 


62  MRS.   GEOFFREY. 

Near  Mona — when  in  her  presence — a  gladness  that  amounts 
almost  to  perfect  happiness  is  his ;  apart  from  her  is  unrest. 
Love,  although  he  is  but  just  awakeninfj  to  the  fact,  has  laid  his 
chubby  hands  upon  him,  and  now  holds  him  in  thrall ;  so  that 
no  longer  for  him  is  that  most  desirable  thing  content, — which 
means  indifference.  Rather  is  he  melancholy  now  and  then, 
and  inclined  to  look  on  life  apart  from  Mona  as  a  doubtful 
good. 

For  what,  after  all,  is  love,  but 

"  A  madness  most  discreet, 
A  choking  gall,  and  a  preserving  sweet"  ? 

There  are,  too,  dispassionate  periods,  when  he  questions  the 
wisdom  of  giving  his  heart  to  a  girl  lowly  born  as  Mona  un- 
doubtedly is,  at  least  on  her  father's  side.  And,  indeed,  the 
little  drop  of  blue  blood  inherited  from  her  mother  is  so  faint 
in  hue  as  to  be  scarcely  recognizable  by  those  inclined  to 
cavil. 

And  these  he  knows  will  be  many :  there  would  be  first  his 
mother,  and  then  Nick,  with  a  silent  tongue  but  brows  up- 
lifted, and  after  them  Violet,  who  in  the  home  circle  is  re- 
garded as  Geoffrey's  "  affinerty,"  and  who  last  year  was  asked 
to  Rodney  Towers  for  the  express  purpose  (though  she  knew 
it  not)  of  laying  siege  to  his  heart  and  bestowing  upon  him  in 
return  her  hand  and — fortune.  To  do  Lady  Rodney  justice, 
she  was  never  blind  to  the  fortune ! 

Yet  Violet,  with  her  pretty,  slow,  trainante  voice  and  per- 
fect manner,  and  small  pale  attractive  face,  and  great  eyes  that 
seem  too  earnest  for  the  fragile  body  to  which  they  belong,  is 
as  naught  before  Mona,  whose  beauty  is  strong  and  undeniable, 
and  whose  charm  lies  as  much  in  inward  grace  as  in  outward 
loveliness. 

Though  uncertain  that  she  regards  him  with  any  feeling 
stronger  than  that  of  friendliness  (because  of  the  strange  cold- 
ness that  she  at  times  affects,  dreading  perhaps  lest  he  shall 
see  too  quickly  into  her  tender  heart),  yet  instinctively  he 
knows  that  he  is  welcome  in  her  sight,  and  that  "  the  day 
grows  brighter  for  his  coming."  Still,  at  times  this  strange 
coldness  puzzles  him,  not  understanding  that 

"No  lesse  was  she  in  secret  heart  affected, 
But  that  she  masked  it  in  modestie, 
Tor  fcare  she  should  of  li;'htnesse  bo  detected." 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  53 

For  many  days  he  had  not  known  "  that  his  heart  was 
darkened  with  her  shadow."  Only  yesterday  he  might  per- 
haps have  denied  his  love  for  her,  so  strange,  so  uncertain,  so 
undreamt  of,  is  the  dawning  of  a  first  great  attachment.  One 
looks  upon  the  object  that  attracts,  and  finds  the  deepest  joy 
in  looking,  yet  hardly  realizes  the  great  truth  that  she  has  be- 
come part  of  one's  being,  not  to  be  eradicated  until  death  jr 
change  come  to  the  rescue. 

Perhaps  Longfellow  has  more  cleverly — and  certainly  more 
tenderly — than  any  other  poet  described  the  earlier  approaches 
of  the  god  of  Love,  when  he  says, — 

"  Tho  first  sound  in  the  song  of  love 
Scarce  more  than  silence  is,  and  yet  a  sound. 
Hands  of  invisible  spirits  touch  tho  strings 
Of  that  mysterious  instrument,  tho  soul, 
And  play  the  prelude  of  our  fate." 

For  Geoffrey  the  prelude  has  beer  played,  and  now  at  last 
he  knows  it.  Up  and  down  the  little  hall  he  paces,  his  hands 
behind  his  back,  as  is  his  wont  when  deep  in  day-dreams,  and 
asks  himself  many  a  question  hitherto  unthought  of  Can  he 
— shall  he — go  farther  in  this  matter?  Then  this  thought 
presses  to  the  front  beyond  all  others  :  "  Does  she — will  she — 
ever  love  me?" 

"  Now,  hurry,  Bridget,"  says  Mona's  low,  soft  voice, — that 
"  excellent  thing  in  woman."  "  Don't  be  any  time.  Just 
give  that  to  Kitty,  and  say  one  prayer,  and  be  back  in  tea 
minutes." 

"  Law,  Miss  Mona,  ye  needn't  tell  me ;  sure  I'm  flyin'.  I'll 
be  there  an'  back  before  ye'll  know  I'm  gone."  This  from 
the  agile  Biddy,  as  (exhilarated  with  the  knowledge  that  she 
is  going  to  see  a  corpse)  she  rushes  up  the  road. 

"  Now  come  and  see  my  own  room,"  says  Mona,  going  up 
to  Rodney,  and,  slipping  her  hand  into  his  in  a  little  trustful 
fashion  that  is  one  of  her  many  loving  ways,  she  leads  him 
along  the  hall  to  a  door  opposite  the  kitchen.  This  she  opens, 
and  with  conscious  pride  draws  him  after  her  across  ita 
threshold.  So  holding  him,  she  might  at  this  moment  have 
drawn  him  to  the  world's  end, — wherever  that  may  be ! 

It  is  a  very  curious  little  room  they  enter, — yet  pretty, 
withal,  and  suggestive  of  care  and  affection,  and  certainly  not  one 
to  be  laughed  at.     Each  object  that  meets  tho  view  seems  ra- 

6* 


64  MRS.  GEOFFREY. 

plete  with  pleasurable  memory, — seems  part  of  its  gentle  mis- 
tress. There  are  two  windows,  small,  and  with  diamond  panes 
like  the  parlor,  and  in  the  far  end  is  a  piano.  There  are 
books,  and  some  ornaments,  and  a  hu<^e  bowl  of  sweetly-smelling 
flowers  on  the  centre-table,  and  a  bracket  or  two  against  the 
walls.     Some  loose  music  is  lying  on  a  chair. 

"  Now  I  am  here,  you  will  sing  me  something,"  says  Geof- 
frey, presently. 

"  I  wonder  what  kind  of  songs  you  like  best,"  says  Mona, 
dreamily,  letting  her  fingers  run  noiselessly  over  the  keys  of 
the  Collard.     "  If  you  are  like  me,  you  like  sad  ones." 

"  Then  I  am  like  you,"  returns  he,  quickly. 

"  Then  I  will  sing  you  a  song  I  was  sent  last  week,"  says 
Moua,  and  forthwith  sings  him  "  Years  Ago,"  mournfully, 
pathetically,  and  with  all  her  soul,  as  it  should  be  sung.  Then 
she  gives  him  "London  Bridge,"  and  then  "  Rose-Marie," 
and  then  she  takes  her  fingers  from  the  piano  and  looks  at 
him  with  a  fond  hope  that  he  will  see  fit  to  praise  her  work. 

"  You  are  an  artist,"  says  Geoffrey,  with  a  deep  sigh,  when 
she  has  finished.  "  Who  taught  you,  child  ?  But  tliere  is 
no  use  in  such  a  question.  Nobody  could  teach  it  to  you : 
you  must  feel  it  as  you  sing.  And  yet  you  are  scarcely  to  be 
envied.  Your  singing  has  betrayed  to  me  one  thing :  if  ever 
you  suiFer  any  great  trouble  it  will  kill  you." 

"  I  am  not  going  to  suffer,"  says  Mona,  lightly.  "  Sorrow 
only  falls  on  every  second  generation  ;  and  you  know  poor 
mother  was  very  unhappy  at  one  time :  therefore  I  am  free. 
You  will  call  that  superstition,  but,"  with  a  grave  shake  of 
her  head,  "  it  is  quite  true." 

"  I  hope  it  is,"  says  Geoffrey  ;  "  though,  taking  your  words 
for  gospel,  it  rather  puts  me  out  in  the  cold.  My  mother 
seems  to  have  had  rather  a  good  time  all  through,  devoid  of 
anything  that  might  be  termed  trouble." 

"  But  she  lost  her  husband,"  says  Mona,  gently. 

•  "  Well,  she  did.  I  don't  remember  about  that,  you  know. 
I  was  quite  a  little  chap,  and  hustled  out  of  sight  if  I  said 

*  boo.'  But  of  course  she's  got  over  all  that,  and  is  as  jolly 
as  a  sand-boy  now,"  says  Geoff'rey,  gayly.  (If  only  Lady 
Rodney  could  have  had  heard  him  comparing  her  to  a  "sand- 
boy"!) 

"  Poor  thing  1"  says  Mona,  sympathetically,  which  sym- 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  55 

pathy,  by  the  by,  is  utterly  misplaced,  as  Lady  Rodney 
thought  her  husband,  if  anything,  an  old  bore,  and  threo 
months  after  his  death  confessed  to  herself  that  she  was  very 
glad  he  was  no  more  ! 

"  Where  do  you  get  your  music  ?"  asks  Geoffrey,  idly, 
wondering  how  "  London  Bridge"  has  found  its  way  to  this 
isolated  spot,  as  he  thinks  of  the  shops  in  the  pretty  village 
near,  where  Molloy  and  Adams,  and  their  attendant  sprite 
called  Weatherley,  are  unknown. 

"  The  boys  send  it  to  me.  Anything  new  that  comes  out, 
or  anything  they  think  will  suit  my  voice,  they  post  to  me  at 
once." 

"  The  boys  !"  repeats  he,  mystified. 

"  Yes,  the  students,  I  mean.  When  with  aunty  in  Dublin 
I  knew  ever  so  many  of  them,  and  they  were  very  fond  of 
me." 

"  I  dare  say,"  says  Mr.  Rodney,  with  rising  ire. 

"  Jack  Foster  and  Terry  O'Brien  write  to  me  very  often," 
goes  on  Mona,  unconsciously.  "  And  indeed  they  all  do  oc- 
casionally, at  Christmas,  you  know,  and  Easter  and  Mid- 
summer, just  to  ask  me  how  I  am,  and  to  tell  me  how  they 
have  got  through  their  exams.  But  it  is  Jack  and  Terry,  for 
the  most  part,  who  send  me  the  music." 

"  It  is  very  kind  of  them,  I'm  sure,"  says  Geoffrey,  un- 
reasonably jealous,  as,  could  ho  only  have  seen  the  said  Terry's 
shock  head  of  red  hair,  his  fears  of  rivalry  would  forever  have 
been  laid  at  rest.  "  But  they  are  favored  friends.  You  can 
take  presents  from  them,  and  yet  tlie  other  day  when  I  asked 
you  if  you  would  like  a  little  gold  chain  to  hang  to  your 
mother's  watch,  you  answered  me  '  that  you  did  not  require 
it'  in  such  a  tone  as  actually  froze  me  and  made  me  feel  I  had 
said  something  unpardonably  impertinent." 

"  Oh,  no,"  says  Mona,  shocked  at  this  interpretation  of  her 
manner.  "  I  did  not  mean  all  that ;  only  I  really  did  not  re- 
quire it ;  at  least" — truthfully — "  not  much.  And,  besides, 
a  song  is  not  like  a  gold  chain  ;  and  you  are  quite  different 
from  them  ;  and  besides,  again," — growing  slightly  confused, 
yet  with  a  last  remnant  of  courage, — "  there  is  no  reason  why 
you  should  give  me  anything.  Shall  I" — hurriedly — "sing 
something  else  for  you  ?" 

And  then  she  sings  again,  some  old-world  song  of  love  and 


56  MRS.  GEOFFREY. 

chivalry  that  awakes  within  one  a  quick  longing  for  a  worthier 
life.  Her  sweet  voice  rings  through  the  room,  now  glad  with 
triumph,  now  sad  with  a  "  lovely  melancholy,"  as  the  words 
and  music  sway  her.  Her  voice  is  clear  and  pure  and  full  of 
pathos.  She  seems  to  follow  no  rule  ;  an  "  f "  here  or  a  "  p" 
there,  on  the  page  before  her,  she  heeds  not,  but  sings  only  aa 
her  heart  dictates. 

When  she  has  finished,  Geoffrey  sa3"s  "  thank  you"  in  a  low 
tone.  He  is  thinking  of  the  last  time  when  some  one  else 
sang  to  him,  and  of  how  different  the  whole  scene  was  from 
this.  It  was  at  the  Towers,  and  the  hour,  with  its  dying  day- 
light, rises  before  him.  The  subdued  light  of  the  summer 
eve,  the  open  window,  the  perfume  of  the  drowsy  flowers,  the 
pirl  at  the  piano  with  her  small  drooping  head  and  her  per- 
fectly trained  and  very  pretty  voice,  the  room,  the  soft  silence, 
his  mother  leaning  back  in  her  crimson  velvet  chair,  beating 
time  to  the  music  with  her  long  jewelled  fingers, — all  is  re- 
membered. 

It  was  in  the  boudoir  they  were  sitting,  and  Violet  waa 
dressed  in  some  soft  gray  dress  that  shone  and  turned  into 
palest  pearl  as  she  moved.  It  was  his  mother's  boudoir,  the 
room  she  most  affects,  with  its  crimson  and  gray  coloring  and 
its  artistic  arrangements,  that  blend  so  harmoniously,  and  are 
so  tremendously  becoming  to  the  complexion  when  the  blinds 
are  lowered.  How  pretty  Mona  would  look  in  a  gray  and 
crimson  room  !  how 

"  What  are  you  thinking  of?"  asks  Mona,  softly,  breaking  ra 
upon  his  soliloquy. 

"  Of  the  last  time  I  heard  any  one  sing,"  returns  he,  slowly. 
"  I  was  comparing  that  singer  very  unfavorably  with  you. 
Your  voice  is  so  unlike  what  one  usually  hears  in  drawing- 
rooms." 

He  means  highest  praise.  She  accepts  his  words  as  a  kind 
rebuke. 

"  Is  that  a  compliment?"  she  says,  wistfully.  "  Is  it  well 
to  be  unlike  all  the  world  ?  Yet  what  you  say  is  true,  no 
doubt  I  suppose  I  am  different  from — from  all  the  other 
people  you  know." 

This  is  half  a  question ;  and  Geoffrey,  answering  it  from 
his  heart,  sinks  even  deeper  into  the  mire. 

"  You  are  indeed,"  he  says,  in  a  tone  so  grateful  that  it 


MRS.   GEOFFREY.  57 

ought  to  have  betrayed  to  her  his  meaning.     But  grief  and 
disappointment  liavo  seized  upon  her. 

"  Yes,  of  course,"  she  says,  dejectedly.  A  cloud  seems  to 
liave  fallen  upon  her  happy  hour.  "  When  did  you  hear  that 
— that  last  singer?"  she  asks,  in  a  subdued  voice. 

"  At  home,"  returns  he.  He  is  gazing  out  of  the  window, 
with  his  hands  clasped  behind  his  back,  and  does  not  pay  so 
much  attention  to  her  words  as  is  his  wont. 

"  Is  your  home  very  beautiful  ?"  asks  she,  timidly,  looking 
at  him  the  more  earnestly  in  that  he  seems  rapt  in  contempla- 
tion of  the  valley  that  spreads  itself  before  him. 

"  Yes,  very  beautiful,"  he  answers,  thinking  of  the  stately 
oaks  and  aged  elms  and  branching  beeches  that  go  so  far  to 
make  up  the  glory  of  the  ivied  Towers. 

"  How  paltry  this  country  must  appear  in  comparison  with 
your  own  !"  goes  on  the  girl,  longing  for  a  contradiction,  and 
staring  at  her  little  brown  hands,  the  fingers  of  which  are 
twining  and  intertwining  nervously  with  one  another.  "  How 
glad  you  will  be  to  get  back  to  your  own  home  1" 

"  Yes,  very  glad,"  returns  he,  hardly  knowing  what  he  says. 
He  has  gone  back  again  to  his  first  thoughts, — his  mother's 
boudoir,  with  its  old  china,  and  its  choice  water-colors  that 
line  the  walls,  and  its  delicate  Italian  statuettes.  In  his  own 
home — which  is  situated  about  fourteen  miles  from  the  Towers, 
and  which  is  rather  out  of  repair  through  years  of  disuse — 
there  are  many  rooms.  He  is  busy  now  trying  to  remember 
them,  and  to  decide  which  of  them  Avould  look  best  decked 
out  in  crimson  and  gray,  or  blue  and  silver :  he  hardly  knows 
which  would  suit  her  best.     Perhaps,  after  all 

"  How  strange  it  is  1"  says  Mona's  voice,  that  has  now  a 
faint  shade  of  sadness  in  it.  "  How  people  come  and  go  in 
one's  lives,  like  the  waves  of  the  restless  sea,  now  breaking  at 
one's  feet,  now  receding,  now " 

"  Only  to  return,"  interrupts  he,  quickly.  "  And — to  break 
at  your  feet  ?  to  break  one's  heart,  do  you  mean  ?  I  do  not 
like  your  simile." 

"  You  jest,"  says  Mona,  full  of  calm  reproach.  "  I  mean 
how  strangely  people  fall  into  one's  lives  and  then  out  again  I" 
She  hesitates.  Perhaps  something  in  his  face  warns  her,  per- 
haps it  is  the  weariness  of  her  own  voice  that  frightens  her, 
but  at  this  moment  her  whole  expression  changes,  and  a  laugh, 


58  MRS.  GEOFFREY. 

forced  but  apparently  full  of  gayety,  comes  from  her  lips.  It 
is  very  well  done  indeed,  yet  to  any  one  but  a  jealous  lover 
her  eyes  would  betray  her.  The  usual  softness  is  gone  from 
them,  and  only  a  well-suppressed  grief  and  a  pride  that  cannot 
be  suppressed  take  its  place. 

"Wiiy  should  they  fall  out  again?"  says  Rodney,  a  .ittle 
angrily,  hearing  only  her  careless  laugh,  and — manlike — ig- 
noring stupidly  the  pain  in  her  lovely  eyes.  "  Unless  people 
choose  to  forget." 

"  One  may  choose  to  forget,  but  one  may  not  be  able  to 
accomplish  it.  To  forget  or  to  remember  is  not  in  one's  owa 
power." 

"  That  is  what  fickle  people  say.  But  what  one  feels  one 
remembers." 

"  That  is  true,  for  a  time,  with  some.  Forever  with 
others." 

"  Are  you  one  of  the  others  ?" 

She  makes  him  no  answer. 

"  Are  you  .^"  she  says,  at  length,  after  a  long  silence. 

"  I  think  so,  Moua.  There  is  one  thing  I  shall  never  for- 
get." 

"  Many  things,  I  dare  say,"  she  says,  nervously,  turning 
from  him. 

"  Why  do  you  speak  of  people  dropping  out  of  your  life  ?" 

"  Because,  of  course,  you  will,  you  must.  Your  world  is 
not  mine." 

"  You  could  make  it  yours." 

"  I  do  not  understand,"  she  says,  very  proudly,  throwing  up 
her  head  with  a  charming  gesture.  "  And,  talking  of  forget- 
fulness,  do  you  know  what  hour  it  is  ?" 

"  You  evidently  want  to  get  rid  of  me,"  says  Rodney,  dis- 
couraged, taking  up  his  hat.  He  takes  up  her  hand,  too, 
and  holds  it  warmly,  and  looks  long  and  earnestly  into  her 
face. 

"  By  the  by,"  he  says,  once  more  restored  to  something 
like  hope,  as  he  notes  her  drooping  lids  and  changing  color  and 
how  she  hides  from  his  searching  gaze  her  dark,  blue,  Irish 
eyes,  that,  as  somebody  has  so  cleverly  expressed  it,  seem 
"  rubbed  into  her  head  with  a  dirty  finger,"  so  marked  lie  the 
shadows  beneath  them,  that  enhance  and  heighten  their 
beauty, — "  by  the  by,  you  told  me  you  had  a  miniature  of 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  59 

your  mother  ia  your  desk,  and  you  promised  to  show  it  to 
me."  He  merely  says  this  with  a  view  to  gaining  more  time, 
and  not  from  any  overwhelming  desire  to  see  the  late  Mrs. 
Scully. 

"  It  is  here,"  says  Mona,  rather  pleased  at  his  remembering 
this  promise  of  hers,  and,  going  to  a  desk,  proceeds  to  open  a 
secret  drawer,  in  which  lies  the  picture  in  question. 

It  is  a  very  handsome  picture,  and  Geoffrey  duly  admires 
it ;  then  it  is  returned  to  its  place,  and  Mona,  opening  the 
drawer  next  to  it,  shows  him  some  exquisite  ferns  dried  and 
gummed  on  paper. 

"  What  a  clever  child  you  are  !"  says  Geoffrey,  with  genuine 
admiration.  "  And  what  is  here  ?"  laying  his  hand  on  the 
third  drawer. 

"  Oh,  do  not  open  that — do  not !"  says  IMona,  hastily,  in  an 
agony  of  fear,  to  judge  by  her  eyes,  laying  a  deterring  hand 
upon  his  arm. 

"  And  why  not  this  or  any  other  drawer  ?"  says  Rodney, 
growing  pale.  Again  jealousy,  which  is  a  demon,  rises  in  his 
breast,  and  thrusts  out  all  gentler  feelings.  Her  allusion  to 
Mr.  Moore,  most  innocently  spoken,  and,  later  on,  her  refer- 
ence to  the  students,  have  served  to  heighten  within  him  angry 
suspicion. 

"Do  not!"  says  Mona,  again,  as  though  fresh  words  are 
impossible  to  her,  drawing  her  breath  quickly.  Her  evident 
agitation  incenses  him  to  the  last  degree.  Opening  the  drawer 
impulsively,  he  gazes  at  its  contents. 

Only  a  little  withered  bunch  of  heather,  tied  by  a  blade  of 
grass  !     Nothing  more  ! 

Rodney's  heart  throbs  with  passionate  relief,  yet  shame 
covers  him ;  for  he  himself,  one  day,  had  given  her  that 
heather,  tied,  as  he  remembers,  with  that  self-same  grass  ;  and 
she,  poor  child,  had  kept  it  ever  since.  She  had  treasured  it, 
and  laid  it  aside,  apart  from  all  other  objects,  among  her  most 
sacred  possessions,  as  a  thing  belovea  and  full  of  tender  mem- 
ories ;  and  his  had  been  the  hand  to  ruthlessly  lay  bare  this 
bidden  secret  of  her  soul. 

He  is  overcome  with  contrition,  and  would  perhaps  have 
Baid  something  betraying  his  scorn  of  himself,  but  she  pre- 
vents him. 

"  Yes,"  she  says,  with  cheeks  colored  to  a  rich  carmine. 


60  MRS.  GEOFFREY. 

and  flashing  eyes,  and  lips  that  quiver  in  spite  of  all  her 
efforts  at  control,  "  that  is  the  bit  of  heather  you  gave  me, 
and  that  is  the  grass  that  tied  it.  I  kept  it  because  it  reminded 
me  of  a  day  when  I  was  happy.  Now,"  bitterly,  "  I  no  longer 
care  for  it :  for  the  future  it  can  only  bring  back  to  mo  an 
hour  when  I  was  grieved  and  wounded." 

Taking  up  the  hapless  heather,  she  throws  it  on  the  ground, 
and,  in  a  fit  of  childish  spleen,  lays  her  foot  upon  it  and 
tramples  it  out  of  all  recognition.  Yet,  even  as  she  does  so, 
the  tears  gather  in  her  eyes,  and,  resting  there  unshed,  trans- 
figure her  into  a  lovely  picture  that  might  well  be  termed 
"  Beauty  in  Distress."  For  this  faded  flower  she  grieves  as 
though  it  were,  indeed,  a  living  thing  that  she  has  lost. 

"  Go  r  she  says,  in  a  choked  voice,  and  with  a  little  passion- 
ate sob,  pointing  to  the  door.  "  You  have  done  mischief 
enough."  Her  gesture  is  at  once  imperious  and  dignified. 
Then  in  a  softer  voice,  that  tells  of  sorrow,  and  with  a  deep 
sigh,  "  At  least,"  she  says,  "  I  believed  in  your  honor  I" 

The  reproach  is  terrible,  and  cuts  him  to  the  heart.  He 
picks  up  the  poor  little  bruised  flower,  and  holds  it  tenderly 
in  his  hand. 

"  How  can  I  go,"  he  says,  without  daring  to  look  at  her, 
•'  until,  at  least,  I  ask  for  forgiveness  ?"  He  feels  more  ner- 
vous, more  crushed  in  the  presence  of  this  little  wounded  Irish 
girl,  with  her  pride  and  her  grief,  than  he  has  ever  felt  in  the 
presence  of  an  offended  fashionable  beauty  full  of  airs  and 
caprices.  "  Mona,  love  makes  one  cruel :  I  ask  you  to  re- 
member that,  because  it  is  my  only  excuse,"  he  says,  warmly 
"  Don't  condemn  me  altogether ;  but  forgive  me  once  more.' 

"I  am  always  forgiving  you,  it  seems  to  me,"  says  Mona, 
coldly,  turning  from  him  with  a  frown.  "  And  as  for  that 
heather,"  facing  him  again,  with  eyes  shamed  but  wrathful, 
"  I  just  kept  it  because — because — oh,  because  I  didn't  like  Uf 
throw  it  away  1     That  was  all '" 

Her  meaning,  in  spite  of  her,  is  clear  ;  but  Geoffrey  doesn't 
dare  so  much  as  to  think  about  it.  Yet  in  his  heart  he  knows 
that  he  is  glad  because  of  her  words. 

"  You  mustn't  think  I  supposed  you  kept  it  for  any  other 
purpose,"  he  says,  quite  solemnly,  and  in  such  a  depressed 
tone  that  Mona  almost  feels  sorry  for  him. 

He  has  so  far  recovered  his  courage  that  he  has  taken  hei 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  61 

hand,  and  is  now  holding  it  in  a  close  grasp ;  and  Mona, 
though  a  little  frown  still  lingers  on  her  low,  broad  forehead, 
lets  her  hand  so  lie  without  a  censure. 

"  Mona,  do  be  friends  with  me,"  he  says  at  last,  desperately, 
driven  to  simplicity  of  language  through  his  very  misery. 
There  is  a  humility  in  this  speech  that  pleases  her. 

"  It  is  really  hardly  worth  talking  about,"  she  says,  grandly. 
*'  I  was  foolish  to  lay  so  great  a  stress  on  such  a  trifling  matter. 
It  doesn't  signify,  not  in  the  least.  But — but,"  the  blood 
mounting  to  her  brow,  "  if  ever  you  speak  of  it  again, — if 
ever  you  even  mention  the  word  '  heather,' — I  shall  hate 
you  !" 

"  That  word  shall  never  pass  my  lips  again  in  your  com- 
pany,— never,  I  swear !"  says  he,  "  until  you  give  me  leave. 
My  darling,"  in  a  low  tone,  "  if  you  could  only  know  how 
vexed  I  am  about  the  whole  affair,  and  my  unpardonable  con- 
duct 1  Yet,  Mona,  I  will  not  hide  from  you  that  this  little 
bit  of  senseless  heather  has  made  me  happier  than  I  have  ever 
been  before." 

Stooping,  he  presses  his  lips  to  her  hand  for  the  first  time. 
The  caress  is  long  and  fervent. 

"  Say  I  am  quite  forgiven,"  he  pleads,  earnestly,  his  eyes  on 
hers. 

"  Yes.  I  forgive  you,"  she  says,  almost  in  a  whisper,  with 
a  seriousness  that  amounts  to  solemnity. 

Still  holding  her  hand,  as  though  loath  to  quit  it,  he  moves 
towards  the  door  ;  but  before  reaching  it  she  slips  away  from 
him,  and  says  "  Good-by"  rather  coldly. 

"  When  am  I  to  see  you  again  ?"  says  Rodney,  anxiously. 

"  Oh,  not  for  ever  so  long,"  returns  she,  with  much  and 
heartless  unconcern.  (His  spirits  sink  to  zero.)  "  Certainly 
not  until  Friday,"  she  goes  on,  carelessly.  (As  this  is  "Wed- 
nesday, his  spirits  once  more  rise  into  the  seventh  heaven.) 
"  Or  Saturday,  or  Sunday,  or  perhaps  some  day  next  week," 
she  says,  unkindly. 

"  If  on  Friday  night  there  is  a  good  moon,"  says  Rodney, 
boldly,  ''  will  you  take  me,  as  you  promised,  to  see  the  Bay  ?" 

"  Yes,  if  it  is  fine,"  says  Mona,  after  a  faint  hesitation. 

Then  she  accompanies  him  to  the  door,  but  gravely,  and 
not  with  her  accustomed  gayety.  Standing  on  the  door-step 
he  looks  at  her,  and,  as  though  impelled  to  ask  the  question 

G 


62  MRS.  GEOFFREY. 

because  of  her  extreme  stillness,  he  says,  "  Of  what  are  you 
thinking?" 

"  I  am  thinking  that  the  man  we  saw  before  going  into 
Kitty's  cabin  is  the  murderer  !"  she  says,  with  a  strong  shudder. 

"  T  thought  so  all  along,"  says  Geoffrey,  gravely. 


CHAPTER  VI. 


HOW  THE  MYSTIC  MOONBEAMS  THROW  THEIR  RAYS  ON 
MONA  ;  AND  now  GEOFFREY,  JEALOUS  OP  THEIR  AD- 
MIRATION,   DESIRES   TO    CLAIM    HER   AS    HIS    OWN. 

Friday  is  fine,  and  towards  nightfall  grows  still  milder, 
until  it  seems  that  even  in  tlie  dawn  of  October  a  summer's 
night  may  be  born. 

The  stars  are  coming  out  one  by  one, — slowly,  tranquilly, 
as  though  haste  has  got  no  part  with  them.  The  heavens  are 
clothed  in  azure.  A  single  star,  that  sits  apai-t  from  all  the 
rest,  is  twinkling  and  gleaming  in  its  blue  nest,  now  throwing 
out  a  pale  emerald  ray,  now  a  blood-red  fire,  and  anon  a  touch 
of  opal,  faint  and  shadowy,  yet  more  lovely  in  its  vagueness 
than  all  the  rest,  until  verily  it  resembles  "  a  diamond  in  the 
sky." 

Geoffrey  coming  to  the  farm  somewhat  early  in  the  evening, 
Mona  takes  him  round  to  the  yard,  where  two  dogs,  hitherto 
unseen  by  Geoffrey,  lie  chained.  They  are  two  splendid 
bloodhounds,  that,  as  she  approaches,  rise  to  their  feet,  and, 
lifting  their  massive  heads,  throw  out  into  the  night-air  a  deep 
hollow  bay  that  bespeaks  welcome. 

"  What  lovely  creatures  1"  says  Geoffrey,  who  has  a  passion 
for  animals:  they  seem  to  acknowledge  him  as  a  friend.  As 
Mona  looses  them  from  their  den,  they  go  to  him,  and,  sniff- 
ing round  him,  at  last  open  their  great  jaws  into  a  satisfied 
yawn,  and,  raising  themselves,  rest  their  paws  upon  his  breast 
and  rub  their  faces  contentedly  against  his. 

"  Now  you  are  their  friend  forever,"  says  ]\Iona,  in  a  pleased 
tone.     "  Once  they  do  that,  they  mean  to  tell  you  they  have 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  63 

adopted  you.  And  they  like  very  few  people :  so  it  is  a  com- 
pliment." 

"  I  feel  it  keenly,"  says  Rodney,  caressing  the  handsome 
creatures  aa  they  crouch  at  his  feet.  "  Where  did  you  get 
them  ?" 

"  From  Mr.  Moore."  A  mischievous  light  comes  into  her 
face  as  she  says  this,  and  she  laughs  aloud.  "  But,  I  assure 
you,  not  as  a  love-token.  He  gave  them  to  me  when  they 
were  quite  babies,  and  I  reared  them  myself.  Are  they  not 
lovely  ?  I  call  them  '  Spice'  and  '  Allspice,'  because  one  has 
a  quicker  temper  than  the  other." 

"  The  names  are  original,  at  all  events,"  says  Geoffrey, — 
"  which  is  a  great  charm.  One  gets  so  tired  of  '  Rags  and 
Tatters,'  '  Beer  and  Skittles,'  '  Cak&s  and  Ale,'  and  so  forth, 
where  pairs  are  in  question,  whether  they  be  dogs  or  ponies." 

"  Shall  we  set  out  now  ?"  says  Mona  ;  and  she  calls  "  Mickey, 
Mickey,"  at  the  top  of  her  strong  young  lungs. 

The  man  who  manages  the  farm  generally — and  is  a  plague 
and  a  blessing  at  the  same  time  to  his  master — appears  round 
a  corner,  and  declares,  respectfully,  that  he  will  be  ready  in  a 
"jiffy"  to  accompany  Miss  Mona,  if  she  will  just  give  him 
time  to  "  clane  himself  up  a  bit." 

And  in  truth  the  "  claniug"  occupies  a  very  short  period, — 
or  else  iMona  and  Geoffrey  heed  not  the  parting  moments. 
For  sometimes 

"Time,  as  he  passes  us,  has  a  dove's  wing, 
Unsoiled  and  swift,  and  of  a  silken  sound." 

"  I'm  ready  now,  miss,  if  you  are,"  says  Mickey  from  tho 
background,  with  the  utmost  bonhomie,  and  in  a  tone  that 
implies  he  is  quite  willing  not  to  be  ready,  if  it  so  pleases  her, 
for  another  five  minutes  or  so,  or  even,  if  necessary,  to  efface 
himself  altogether.  He  is  a  stalwart  young  Hibernian,  with 
rough  hair  and  an  honest  face,  and  gray  eyes,  merry  and  cun- 
ning, and  so  many  freckles  that  he  looks  like  a  turkey-egg. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  am  quite  ready,"  says  Mona,  starting  some- 
what guiltily.  And  then  they  pass  out  through  the  big  yard- 
gate,  with  the  two  dogs  at  their  heels,  and  their  attendant 
squire,  who  brings  up  the  rear  with  a  soft  whistle  that  rings 
through  the  cool  night-air  and  tells  the  listening  stars  that  tha 


64  MRS.  GEOFFREY. 

"girl  be  loves  is^iis  dear,"  and  his  "own,  his  artless  Nora 
Creana." 

Geoffrey  and  Mona  go  up  the  road  with  the  serenader  be- 
hind them,  and,  turning  aside,  she  guiding,  mount  a  stile,  and, 
striking  across  a  field,  make  straight  for  the  high  hill  that  con- 
ceals the  ocean  from  the  farm.  Over  many  fields  they  travel, 
until  at  length  they  reach  the  mountain's  summit  and  gazo 
down  upon  the  beauteous  scene  below. 

The  very  air  is  still.  There  is  no  sound,  no  motion,  save  the 
coming  and  going  of  their  own  breath  as  it  rises  quickly  from 
their  hearts,  filled  full  of  passionate  admiration  for  the  loveli- 
ness before  them. 

From  the  high  hill  on  which  they  stand,  steep  rocks  de- 
scend until  they  touch  the  water's  edge,  which  lies  sleeping 
beneath  them,  lulled  into  slumber  by  the  tranquil  moon  as 
she  comes  forth  "  from  the  slow  opening  curtains  of  the 
clouds." 

Far  down  below  lies  the  bay,  calm  and  placid.  Not  a  rip- 
ple, not  a  sigh,  comes  to  disturb  its  serenity  or  mar  the  perfect 
beauty  of  the  silver  pathway  thrown  so  lightly  upon  it  by  the 
queen  of  heaven.  It  falls  there  so  clear,  so  unbroken,  that 
almost  one  might  deem  it  possible  to  step  upon  it,  and  so  walk 
onwards  to  the  sky  that  melts  into  it  on  the  far  horizon. 

The  whole  firmament  is  of  a  soft  azure,  flecked  here  and 
there  with  snowy  clouds  tipped  with  palest  gray.  A  little 
cloud — the  tenderest  veil  of  mist — hangs  between  eanh  and 
Bky. 

"  The  moon  is  up  ;  it  is  the  dawn  of  night; 
Stands  by  her  side  one  bold,  bright,  steady  star, 
Star  of  her  heart. 
Mother  of  stars  !  the  heavens  look  up  to  thee." 

Mona  is  looking  up  to  it  now,  with  a  rapt,  pensive  gaze,  her 
great  blue  eyes  gleaming  beneath  its  light.  She  is  sitting 
upon  the  side  of  the  hill,  with  her  hands  clasped  about  her 
knees,  a  thoughtful  expression  on  her  lovely  face.  At  each 
side  of  her,  sitting  bolt  upright  on  their  huge  haunches,  are 
the  dogs,  as  though  bent  on  guarding  her  against  all  evil. 

Geoffrey,  although  in  reality  deeply  impressed  by  the  gran- 
deur of  all  the  surroundings,  yet  cannot  keep  his  eyes  from 
Mona's  face,  her  pretty  attitude,  her  two  mighty  defenders. 
She  reminds  him  in  some  wise  of  Una  and  the  lion,  though 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  65 

the  idea  is  rather  far-fetched ;  and  he  hardly  dares  speak  to 
her,  lest  he  shall  break  the  spell  that  seems  to  lie  upon  her. 

She  herself  destroys  it  presently. 

"  Do  you  like  it  ?"  she  asks,  gently,  bringing  her  gaze  back 
from  the  glowing  heavens  to  the  earth,  which  is  even  more 
beautiful. 

"  The  praise  I  heard  of  it,  though  great,  was  too  faint,"  he 
answers  her,  with  such  extreme  sincerity  in  his  tone  as  touches 
and  gladdens  the  heart  of  the  little  patriot  at  his  feet.  She 
smiles  contentedly,  and  turns  her  eyes  once  more  with  lazy 
delight  upon  the  sea,  where  each  little  point  and  rock  is 
warmed  with  heavenly  light.  She  nods  softly  to  herself,  but 
says  nothing. 

To  her  there  is  nothing  strange  or  new,  either  in  the  hour 
or  the  place.  Often  does  she  come  here  in  the  moonlight 
with  her  faithful  attendant  and  her  two  dogs,  to  sit  and  dream 
away  a  long  sweet  hour  brimful  of  purest  joy,  whilst  drinking 
in  the  plaintive  charm  that  Nature  as  a  rule  flings  over  her 
choicest  paintings. 

To  him,  however,  all  is  different ;  and  the  hour  is  fraught 
with  a  tremulous  joy,  and  with  a  vague  sweet  longing  that 
means  love  as  yet  untold. 

"  This  spot  always  brings  to  my  mind  the  thoughts  of  other 
people,"  says  Mona,  softly.  "  I  am  very  fond  of  poetry :  are 
you  ?" 

"  Very,"  returns  he,  surprised.  He  has  not  thought  of  her 
as  one  versed  in  lore  of  any  kind.  "  What  poets  do  you 
prefer  ?" 

"  I  have  read  so  few,"  she  says,  wistfully,  and  with  hesita- 
tion. Then,  shyly,  "  I  have  so  few  to  read.  I  have  a  Long- 
fellow, and  a  Shakspeare,  and  a  Byron  :  that  is  all." 

"  Byron  ?" 

"  Yes.  And  after  Shakspeare,  I  like  him  best,  and  then 
Longfellow.  Why  do  you  speak  in  that  tone  ?  Don't  you 
like  him  ?" 

"  I  think  I  like  no  poet  half  so  well.  You  mistake  me," 
replies  he,  ashamed  of  his  own  surprise  at  her  preference  for 

his  lordship  beneath  the  calm  purity  of  her  eyes.     "  But 

only — it  seemed  to  me  Longfellow  would  be  more  suited  to 
you." 

"  Well,  so  I  do  love  him.  And  just  then  it  was  of  him  I 
e  6* 


66  MRS.  GEOFFREY. 

was  thinking :  when  I  looked  up  to  the  sky  his  words  came 
back  to  me.  You  remember  what  he  eays  about  the  moon 
rising  '  over  the  pallid  sea  and  the  silvery  mist  of  the 
meadows,'  and  how — 

'  Silently,  one  by  one,  in  the  infinite  meadows  of  heaven, 
Blossomed  the  lovely  stars,  the  forget-me-nots  of  the  augels.' 

That  is  so  sweet,  I  think." 

"  I  remember  it ;  and  I  remember,  too,  who  watched  all 
that:  do  you?"  he  asks,  his  eyes  fixed  upon  hers. 

*'  Yes  ;  Gabriel — poor  Gabriel — and  Evangeline,"  returns 
she,  too  wrapt  up  in  recollections  of  that  sad  and  touching  tale 
to  take  to  heart  his  meaning : 

'  Meanwhile,  apart,  in  the  twilight  gloom  of  a  window's  embrasure, 
Sat  the  lovers,  and  whispered  together.' 

That  is  the  part  you  mean,  is  it  not  ?  I  know  all  that  poem 
very  nearly  by  heart." 

He  is  a  little  disappointed  by  the  calmness  of  her  answer. 

"Yes;  it  was  of  them  I  thought,"  he  says,  turning  his 
head  away, — "  of  the — lovers.  I  wonder  if  their  evening 
was  as  lovely  as  ours  .^" 

Mona  makes  no  reply. 

"  Have  you  ever  read  Shelley  ?"  asks  he,  presently,  puzzled 
by  the  extreme  serenity  of  her  manner. 

She  shakes  her  head. 

"  Some  of  his  ideas  are  lovely.  You  would  like  his  poetry, 
I  think." 

"  What  does  he  say  about  the  moon  ?"  asks  Mona,  still  with 
her  knees  in  her  embrace,  and  without  lifting  her  eyes  from 
the  quiet  waters  down  below. 

"  About  the  moon  ?  Oh,  many  things.  I  was  not  think- 
ing of  the  moon,"  with  faint  impatience ;  "  yet,  as  you  ask 
me,  I  can  remember  one  thing  he  says  about  it." 

"  Then  tell  it  to  me,"  says  Mona. 

So  at  her  bidding  he  repeats  the  lines  slowly,  and  in  his 
best  manner,  which  is  very  good : 

"The  cold  chaste  moon,  the  queen  of  heaven's  bright  isles, 
Who  makes  all  beautiful  on  which  she  smiles! 
That  wandering  shrine  of  soft  yet  icy  flame, 
Which  ever  is  transformed,  yet  still  the  same, 
And  warms,  but  nut  illumines." 


MRS.  OEOFFREY.  67 

He  finishes ;  but,  to  his  amazement,  and  a  good  deal  to  his 
chagrin,  on  looking  at  Mona  he  finds  she  is  wreathed  in  smiles, 
— nay,  is  in  fact  convulsed  with  silent  laughter. 

"  What  is  amusing  you?"  asks  he,  a  trifle  stifily. — To  give 
way  to  recitation,  and  then  find  your  listener  in  agonies  of  sup- 
pressed mirth,  isn't  exactly  a  situation  one  would  hanker  after. 

"  It  was  the  last  line,"  says  Mona,  in  explanation,  clearly 
ashamed  of  herself,  yet  unable  wholly  to  subdue  her  merri- 
ment. "  It  reminded  me  so  much  of  that  speech  about  tea, 
that  they  always  use  at  temperance  meetings :  they  call  it  the 
beverage  '  that  cheers  but  not  inebriates.'  You  said  '  that 
warms  but  not  illumines,'  and  it  sounded  exactly  like  it. 
Don't  you  see?" 

He  doesn't  see. 

"  You  aren't  angry,  are  you  ?"  says  Mona,  now  really  con- 
trite.    "  I  couldn't  help  it,  and  it  loas  like  it,  you  know." 

"  Angry?  no  I"  he  says,  recovering  himself,  as  he  notices  the 
penitence  on  the  face  upraised  to  his. 

"  And  do  say  it  is  like  it,"  says  Mona,  entreatingly. 

"  It  is,  the  image  of  it,"  returns  he,  prepared  to  swear  to 
anything  she  may  propose.  And  then  he  laughs  too,  which 
pleases  her,  as  it  proves  he  no  longer  bears  in  mind  her  evil 
deed ;  after  which,  feeling  she  still  owes  him  something,  she 
suddenly  intimates  to  him  that  he  may  sit  down  on  the  grass 
close  beside  her.  He  seems  to  find  no  difiiculty  in  swiftly 
following  up  this  hint,  and  is  soon  seated  as  near  to  her  as 
circumstances  will  allow. 

But  on  this  picture,  the  beauty  of  which  is  undeniable, 
Mickey  (the  barbarian)  looks  with  disfavor. 

"  If  he's  goiu'  to  squat  there  for  the  night, — an'  I  see  ivery 
prospect  of  it,"  says  Mickey  to  himself, — "  what  on  airth's 
goin'  to  become  of  me  ?" 

Now,  Mickey's  idea  of  "  raal  grand"  scenery  is  the  kitchen 
fire.  Bays  and  rocks  and  moonlight,  and  such  like  comfort- 
less stuff,  would  be  designated  by  him  as  "  all  my  eye  an'  Betty 
Martin."  He  would  consider  the  bluest  water  that  ever  rolled 
a  poor  thing  if  compared  to  the  water  that  boiled  in  the  big 
kettle,  and  sadly  inferior  to  such  cold  water  as  might  contain 
a  "  dhrop  of  the  crathur."  So  no  wonder  he  views  with  dis- 
may Mr.  Ilodney's  evident  intention  of  spending  another  half- 
hour  or  so  on  the  top  of  Carrickdhuve. 


68  MRS.  OEOFFREY. 

Patience  has  its  limits.  Mickey's  limit  comes  quicicly. 
When  five  more  minutes  have  passed,  and  the  two  in  his 
charge  still  make  no  sign,  he  coughs  respectfully  but  very 
loudly  behind  his  hand.  lie  waits  in  anxious  hope  for  the 
result  of  this  telling  manoeuvre,  but  not  the  faintest  notice  is 
taken  of  it.  Both  Mona  and  Geofi"rey  are  deaf  to  the  pathetic 
appeal  sent  straight  from  his  bronchial  tubes. 

Mickey,  as  he  grows  desperate,  grows  bolder.  He  rises  to 
speech. 

"  Av  ye  plaze,  miss,  will  ye  soon  be  comin'  ?" 

"  Very  soon,  Mickey,"  says  Mona,  without  turning  her  head. 
But,  though  her  words  are  satisfactory,  her  tone  is  not.  There 
is  a  lazy  ring  in  it  that  speaks  of  anything  but  immediate  ac- 
tion.    Mickey  disbelieves  in  it. 

"  I  didn't  make  up  the  mare,  miss,  before  comin'  out  wid 
yc,"  he  says,  mildly,  telling  this  lie  without  a  blush. 

"  But  it  is  early  yet,  Mickey,  isn't  it  ?"  says  Mona. 

"  Awfully  early,"  puts  in  GeolFrey. 

"  It  is,  miss  ;  I  know  it,  sir  ;  but  if  the  ould  man  comes  out 
an'  finds  the  mare  widout  her  bed,  there'll  be  all  the  world  to 
pay,  an'  he'll  be  screechin'  mad." 

"  He  won't  go  into  the  stable  to-night,"  says  Mona,  com- 
fortably. 

"  He  might,  miss.  It's  the  very  time  you'd  wish  him  aisy 
in  his  mind  that  be  gets  raal  troublesome.  An'  I  feel  just  as 
if  he  was  in  the  stable  this  blessid  minit  lookin'  at  tJie  poor 
baste,  an'  swearin'  he'll  have  the  life  uv  me." 

"  And  I  feel  just  as  if  he  had  gone  quietly  to  bed,"  says 
Mona,  pleasantly,  turning  away. 

But  Mickey  is  not  to  be  outdone.  "An'  there's  the  pigs, 
miss,"  he  begins  again,  presently. 

"  What's  the  matter  with  them  ?"  says  Mona,  with  some 
pardonable  impatience. 

"  I  didn't  give  them  their  supper  yet,  miss ;  an'  it's  very 
bad  for  the  young  ones  to  be  left  starvin'.  It's  on  me  mind, 
miss,  so  that  I  can't  even  enjoy  me  pipe,  and  it's  fresh  baccy 
I  have  an'  all,  an'  it  might  as  well  be  dust  for  what  comfort  I 
get  from  it.  Them  pigs  is  callin'  for  me  now  like  Christians: 
I  can  a'most  hear  them." 

"  I  shouldn't  think  deafness  is  in  your  family,"  says  Geof- 
frey, genially. 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  69 

"  No,  sir ;  it  isn't,  sir.     We're  none  of  us  hard  of  hearin', 

glory  be  to .     Miss  Mona,"  coaxiiigly,  "  sure  it's  only  a 

step  to  the  house :  wouldn't  Misther  llodiiey  see  ye  home  now, 
just  for  wanst?" 

"  Why,  yes,  of  course  he  can,"  says  Mona,  without  the 
smallest  hesitation.  She  says  it  quite  naturally,  and  as  though 
it  was  the  most  usual  thing  in  the  world  for  a  young  man  to 
see  a  young  woman  home,  through  dewy  fields  and  beneath 
"  mellow  moons,"  at  half-past  ten  at  night.  It  is  now  fully 
nine,  and  she  cannot  yet  bear  to  turn  her  back  upon  the  en- 
chanting scene  before  her.  Surely  in  another  hour  or  so  it 
will  be  time  enough  to  think  of  home  and  all  other  such  pro- 
Baic  facts. 

"  Thin  I  may  go,  miss?"  says  Mickey. 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  may  go,"  says  Mona.  Geoffrey  says  nothing. 
He  is  looking  at  her  with  curiosity,  in  which  deep  love  is 
mingled.  She  is  so  utterly  unlike  all  other  women  he  has 
ever  met,  with  their  petty  aifectatioiis  and  mock  modesties, 
their  would-be  hesitations  and  their  final  yielding^.  She  haa 
no  idea  she  is  doing  anything  that  all  the  world  of  women 
might  not  do,  and  can  see  no  reason  why  she  should  distrust 
her  friend  just  because  he  is  a  man. 

Even  as  Geoifrey  is  looking  at  her,  full  of  tender  thought, 
one  of  the  dogs,  as  though  divining  the  fact  that  she  is  being 
left  somewhat  alone,  lays  its  big  head  upon  her  shoulder,  and 
looks  at  her  with  large  loving  eyes.  Turning  to  him  in  re- 
sponse, she  rubs  her  soft  cheek  slowly  up  and  down  against 
his.  Geoffrey  with  all  his  heart  envies  the  dog.  IIow  she 
seems  to  love  it !  how  it  seems  to  love  her  I 

"  Mickey,  if  you  are  going,  I  think  you  may  as  well  take 
the  dogs  with  you,"  says  Mona :  "  they,  too,  will  want  their 
suppers.  Go,  Spice,  when  I  desire  you.  Good-night,  All- 
spice ;  dear  darling, — see  how  he  clings  to  me." 

Finally  the  dogs  are  called  off,  and  reluctantly  accompany 
the  jubilant  Mickey  down  the  hill. 

"  Perhaps  you  are  tired  of  staying  here,"  says  Mona,  with 
compunction,  turning  to  Geofi"rey,  "  and  would  like  to  go 
home  ?  I  suppose  every  one  cannot  love  this  spot  as  I  do. 
Yes,"  rising,  "  I  am  selfish.     Do  come  home." 

"  Tired !"  says  Geofi"rey,  hastily.  "  No,  indeed.  Who 
could  tire  of  anything  so  divine  ?     If  it  is  your  wish,  it  ia 


70  MRS.  GEOFFREY. 

mine  also,  that  we  should  stay  here  for  a  little  while  longer." 
Then,  struck  by  the  intense  relief  in  her  face,  he  goes  on : 
"  How  you  do  enjoy  the  beauties  of  Nature  !  Do  you  know 
I  have  been  studying  you  since  you  came  here,  and  I  could 
gee  how  your  whole  soul  was  wrapt  in  the  glory  of  the  sur- 
rounding prospect?  You  had  no  thoughts  left  for  other  ob 
jects, — noG  even  one  for  me.  For  the  first  time,"'  softly,  "  I 
learned  to  be  jealous  of  inanimate  things." 

"  Yet  I  was  not  so  wholly  engrossed  as  you  imagine,"  she 
says,  seriously.  "  I  thought  of  you  many  times.  For  one 
thing,  I  felt  glad  that  you  could  see  this  place  with  my  eyes. 
But  I  have  been  silent,  I  know ;  and — and " 

"  How  Rome  and  Spain  would  encnant  you,"  he  says, 
watching  her  face  intently,  "  and  Switzerland,  with  its  lakes 
and  mountains !" 

"  Yes.     But  I  shall  never  see  them." 

"  Why  not  ?  You  will  go  there,  perhaps,  when  you  are 
married." 

"  No,"  with  a  little  flickering  smile,  that  has  pain  and  sor- 
row in  it ;  "  for  the  simple  reason  that  I  shall  never  marry." 

"  But  why  ?"  persists  he. 

"  Because" — the  smile  has  died  away  now,  and  she  is  look- 
ing down  upon  him,  as  he  lies  stretched  at  her  feet  in  the 
uncertain  moonlight,  with  an  expression  sad  but  earnest, — 
"  because,  though  I  am  only  a  farmer's  niece,  I  cannot  bear 
farmers,  and,  of  course,  other  people  would  not  care  for  me." 

"  That  is  absurd,"  says  Rodney ;  "  and  your  own  words 
refute  you.  That  man  called  Moore  cared  for  you,  and  very 
great  impertinence  it  was  on  his  part." 

"  Why,  you  never  even  saw  him,"  says  Mona,  opening  her 
eyes. 

"  No  ;  but  I  can  fancy  him,  with  his  horrid  bald  head. 
Now,  you  know,"  holding  up  his  hand  to  stop  her  as  she  is 
about  to  speak,  "  you  know  you  said  he  hadn't  a  hair  left  on 
it." 

"  Well,  he  was  different,"  says  Mona,  giving  in  ignomini- 
ously.  "  I  couldn't  care  for  him  either ;  but  what  I  said  is 
true  all  the  same.     Other  people  would  not  like  me." 

"  Wouldn't  they  ?"  says  Rodney,  leaning  on  his  elbow  aH 
the  argument  waxes  warmer  ;  "  then  all  I  can  say  is,  I  never 
met  any  '  other  people.'  " 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  71 

"  You  have  met  only  them,  I  suppose,  as  you  belong  to 
them." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  /  don't  care  for  you  ?"  says 
Rodney,  quickly. 

Mona  evades  a  rep^y. 

"  How  cold  it  is !"  she  says,  rising,  with  a  little  shiver. 
"  Let  us  go  home." 

If  she  had  been  nurtured  all  her  life  in  the  fashionable 
world,  she  could  scarcely  have  made  a  more  correct  speech. 
Geoffrey  is  puzzled,  nay,  more,  discomfited.  Just  in  this  wise 
would  a  woman  in  his  own  set  answer  him,  did  she  mean  to 
repel  his  advances  for  the  moment.  He  forgets  that  no  tinge 
of  worldliness  lurks  in  Mona's  nature,  and  feels  a  certain 
amount  of  chagrin  that  she  should  so  reply  to  him. 

"  If  you  wish,"  he  says,  in  a  'courteous  tone,  but  one  full 
of  coldness ;  and  so  they  commenced  their  homeward  jour- 
ney. 

"  I  am  glad  you  have  been  pleased  to-night,"  says  Mona, 
shyly,  abashed  by  his  studied  silence.  "  But,"  nervously, 
"  Killarney  is  even  more  beautiful.     You  must  go  there." 

"  Yes ;  I  mean  to, — before  I  return  to  England." 

She  starts  perceptibly,  which  is  balm  to  his  heart. 

"  To  England  !"  she  repeats,  with  a  most  mournful  attempt 
at  unconcern.     "  Will — will  that  be  soon  ?" 

"  Not  very  soon.     But  some  time,  of  course,  I  must  go." 

"  I  suppose  so,"  she  says,  in  a  voice  from  which  all  joy  has 
flown.  "  And  it  is  only  natural ;  you  will  be  happier  there." 
She  is  looking  straight  before  her.  There  is  no  quiver  in  her 
tone ;  her  lips  do  not  tremble ;  yet  he  can  see  how  pale  she 
has  grown  beneath  the  vivid  moonlight. 

"Is  that  what  you  think?"  he  says,  earnestly.  "  Then  for 
once  you  are  wrong.  I  have  never  been — I  shall  hardly  be 
again — happier  than  I  have  been  in  Ireland." 

There  is  a  pause.  Mona  says  nothing,  but,  taking  out  the 
flower  that  has  lain  upon  her  bosom  all  night,  pulls  it  to 
pieces  petal  by  petal.  And  this  is  unlike  Mona,  because 
flowers  are  dear  to  her  as  sunshine  is  to  them. 

At  this  moment  they  come  to  a  high  bank,  and  Geoffrey, 
having  helped  Mona  to  mount  it,  jun)ps  down  at  the  other 
eide,  and  holds  out  his  arms  to  assist  her  to  descend.  As  she 
reaches  the  ground,  and  while  his  arms  are  still  round  her, 


72  ^TRS.  GEOFFREV. 

she  says,  with  a  sudden  effort,  and  without  lifting  her  eyes, 
"  There  is  very  good  snipe-shooting  here  at  Christmas." 

The  little  pathetic  insinuation  is  as  perfect  as  it  is  touching. 

"  Is  there  ?  Then  I  shall  certainly  return  for  it,"  says 
Geoffrey,  who  is  too  much  of  a  gentleman  to  pretend  to  un- 
derstand all  her  words  seem  to  imply.  "  It  is  really  no  jour- 
ney from  this  to  England." 

"  I  should  think  it  a  long  journey,"  says  Mona,  shaking 
her  head. 

"  Oh,  no,  you  won't,"  says  Rodney,  absently.  In  truth, 
his  mind  is  wandering  to  that  last  little  speech  of  hers,  and  is 
trying  to  unravel  it. 

Mona  looks  at  him.  How  oddly  he  has  expressed  him- 
self! "You  won't,"  he  said,  instead  of  "you  wouldn't." 
Does  he  then  deem  it  possible  she  will  ever  be  able  to  cross 
to  that  land  that  calls  him  son  ?  She  sighs,  and,  looking 
down  at  her  little  lean  sinewy  hands,  clasps  and  unclasps 
them  nervously. 

"  Why  need  you  go  until  after  Christmas  ?"  she  says,  in  a 
tone  so  low  that  he  can  barely  hear  her. 

"  Mona !  Do  you  want  me  to  stay  ?"  asks  he,  suddenly, 
taking  her  hands  in  his.     "  Tell  me  the  truth." 

"  I  do,"  returns  she,  tremulously. 

"  But  why  ? — why  ?  Is  it  because  you  love  me  ?  Oh, 
Mona !  If  it  is  that !  At  times  I  have  thought  so,  and  yet 
again  I  have  feared  you  do  not  love  me  as — as  I  love  you." 

"  Yon  love  me  ?"  repeats  she,  faintly. 

"  With  all  my  heart,"  says  Rodney,  fervently.  And,  in- 
deed, if  this  be  so,  she  may  well  count  herself  in  luck,  because 
it  is  a  very  good  and  true  heart  of  which  he  speaks. 

"  Don't  say  anything  more,"  says  the  girl,  almost  passion- 
ately, drawing  back  from  him  as  though  afraid  of  herself. 
"  Do  not.  The  more  you  say  now,  the  worse  it  will  be  for 
me  by  and  by,  when  I  have  to  think.  And — and — it  is  all 
quite  impossible." 

"But  why,  darling?  Could  you  not  be  happy  as  my 
wife  ?" 

"  Your  wife  ?"  repeats  she,  in  soft,  lingering  tones,  and  a  lit- 
tle tender  seraphic  smile  creeps  into  her  eyes  and  lies  lightly 
on  her  lips.     "  But  I  am  not  fit  to  be  that,  and " 

"  Look  here,"  says  Geoffrey,  with  decision,  "  I  will  have  no 


MRS.  GEOFFRF.Y.  73 

*  buts,'  and  I  prefer  taking  my  answer  from  your  eyes  than 
from  your  lips.  They  are  kinder.  You  are  going  to  marry 
me,  you  know,  and  that  is  all  about  it.  /  shall  marry  you^ 
whether  you  like  it  or  not,  so  you  may  as  well  give  in  with 
a  good  grace.  And  I'll  take  you  to  see  Rome  and  all  the 
places  we  have  been  talking  about,  and  we  shall  have  a  leal 
good  old  time.  Why  don't  you  look  up  and  speak  to  me, 
Mona?" 

"  Because  I  have  nothing  to  say,"  murmura  the  girl,  in  a 
frozen  tone, — "  nothing."  Then,  passionately,  "  I  will  not  be 
selfish.     I  will  not  do  this  thing." 

"  Do  you  mean  you  will  not  marry  me  ?"  asks  he,  letting 
her  go,  and  moving  back  a  step  or  two,  a  frown  upon  his  fore- 
head.    "  I  confess  I  do  not  understand  you." 

"  Try,  tt-y  to  understand  me,"  entreats  she,  desperately, 
following  him  and  laying  her  hand  upon  his  arm.  "  It  is 
only  this.  It  would  not  make  you  happy, — not  afterwards, 
when  you  could  see  the  ditference  between  me  and  the  other 
women  you  have  known.  You  are  a  gentleman  ;  I  am  only  a 
farmer's  niece."  She  says  this  bravely,  though  it  is  agony  to 
her  proud  nature  to  have  to  confess  it. 

"  If  that  is  all,"  says  Geoffrey,  with  a  light  laugh,  laying 
his  hand  over  the  small  brown  one  that  still  rests  upon  his 
arm,  "  I  think  it  need  hardly  separate  us.  You  are,  indeed, 
diflFerent  from  all  the  other  women  I  have  met  in  my  life, — 
which  makes  me  sorry  for  all  the  other  women.  You  are 
dearer  and  sweeter  in  my  eyes  than  any  one  I  have  ever 
known !  Is  not  this  enough  ?  Mona,  are  you  sure  no  other 
reason  prevents  your  accepting  me  ?  Why  do  you  hesitate  ?" 
He  has  grown  a  little  pale  in  his  turn,  and  is  regarding  her 
with  intense  and  jealous  earnestness.  Why  does  she  not 
answer  him?  Why  does  she  keep  her  eyes — those  honest 
tell-tales — so  obstinately  fixed  upon  the  ground  ?  Why  does 
she  show  no  smallest  sign  of  yielding  ? 

"  Give  me  my  answer,"  he  says,  sternly. 
"  I  have  given  it,"  returns  she,  in  a  low  tone, — so  low  that 
he  has  to  bend  to  hear  it.     "  Do  not  be  angry  with  me  ;  do 

not— I " 

"  '  Who  excuses  himself,  accuses  himself,'  "  quotes  Geoffrey. 
"  I  want  no  reasons  for  your  rejection.     It  is  enough  that  I 
know  you  do  not  care  for  me." 
D  7 


74  MRS.  GEOFFREY. 

"  Oh,  no  !  it  is  not  that !  you  must  know  it  is  not  that," 
says  Mona,  in  deep  grief.     "  It  is  that  I  cannot  marry  you  I" 

"  Will  not,  you  mean  I" 

"  Well,  then,  I  will  not,"  returns  she,  with  a  last  effort  at 
determination,  and  the  most  miserable  face  in  the  world. 

"  Oh,  if  you  will  not,"  says  Mr.  Rodney,  wratlifully. 

"  I — will — not,"  says  Mona,  brokenly. 

"  Then  I  don't  believe  you  !"  breaks  out  Geoffrey,  angrily. 
"  I  am  positive  you  want  to  marry  me ;  and  just  because  of 
some  wretched  fad  you  have  got  into  your  head  you  are  deter- 
mined to  make  us  both  wretched." 

"  I  have  nothing  in  my  head,"  says  Mona,  tearfully. 

"  I  don't  tliink  you  can  have  much,  certainly,"  says  Mr. 
Rodney,  with  the  grossest  rudeness,  "  when  you  can  let  a  few 
ridiculous  scruples  interfere  with  both  our  happiness."  Then, 
resentfully,  "  Do  you  hate  me?" 

No  answer. 

"  Say  so,  if  you  do :  it  will  be  honester.  If  you  don't," 
threateningly,  "  I  shall  of  course  think  the  contrary." 

Still  no  answer. 

She  has  turned  away  from  him,  grieved  and  frightened  by 
his  vehemence,  and,  having  plucked  a  leaf  from  the  hedge  near 
her,  is  trifling  absently  with  it  as  it  lies  upon  her  little  trem- 
bling palm. 

It  is  a  drooping  blackberry-leaf  from  a  bush  near  where  she 
is  standing,  that  has  turned  from  green  into  a  warm  and  vivid 
crimson.  She  examines  it  minutely,  as  though  lost  in  wonder 
at  its  excessive  beauty,  for  beautiful  exceedingly  it  is,  clothed 
in  the  rich  cloak  that  Autumn's  generosity  has  flung  upon  it ; 
yet,  I  think,  she  for  once  is  blind  to  its  charm. 

"  I  think  you  had  better  come  home,"  says  Geoffrey,  deeply 
angered  with  her.     "  You  must  not  stay  here  catching  cold." 

A  little  soft  woollen  shawl  of  plain  white  has  slipped  from 
her  throat  and  fallen  to  the  ground,  unheeded  by  her  in  her 
great  distress.  Lifting  it  almost  unwillingly,  he  comes  close 
to  her,  and  places  it  round  her  once  again.  In  so  doing  he 
discovers  that  tears  are  running  down  her  cheeks. 

"Why,  Mona,  what  is  this?"  exclaims  he,  his  manner 
changing  on  the  instant  from  indignation  and  coldness  to 
warmth  and  tenderness.  "  You  are  crying  I  My  darling 
girl  I     There,  lay  your  head  on  my  shoulder,  and  let  us  forget 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  "75 

we  have  ever  quarrelled.  It  is  our  first  dispute  ;  let  it  be  our 
last.  And,  after  all,"  comfortably,  "  it  is  much  better  to  have 
our  quarrels  before  niarriage  than  after." 

This  last  insinuation,  he  flatters  himself,  is  rather  cleverly 
introduced. 

"  Oh,  if  I  could  be  quite,  quite  sure  you  would  never  re- 
gret it  !"  says  Mona,  wistfully. 

"  I  shall  never  regret  anything,  as  long  as  I  have  you  1"  says 
Rodney.     "  Be  assured  of  that." 

"  I  am  so  glad  you  are  poor,"  says  Mona.  "  If  you  were 
rich  or  even  well  ofl",  I  should  never  consent, — never !" 

"  No,  of  course  not,"  says  Mr.  Rodney,  unblushingly  :  "  as 
a  rule,  girls  nowadays  can't  endure  men  with  money." 

This  is  "  sarkassum  ;"  but  Mona  comprehends  it  not. 

Presently,  seeing  she  is  again  smiling  and  looking  inexpress- 
ibly happy,  for  laughter  comes  readily  to  her  lips,  and  tears, 
as  a  rule,  make  no  long  stay  with  her, — ashamed,  perhaps,  to 
disfigure  the  fair  "  windows  of  her  soul,"  that  are  so  "  darkly, 
deeply,  beautifully  blue," — "  So  you  will  come  to  England  with 
me,  after  all  ?"  he  says,  quite  gayly. 

"  I  would  go  to  the  world's  end  with  you,"  returns  she, 
gently.     "  Ah  !  I  think  you  knew  that  all  along." 

"  Well,  I  didn't,"  says  Rodney.  "  There  were  moments, 
indeed,  when  I  believed  m  you ;  but  five  minutes  ago,  when 
you  flung  me  over  so  decidedly,  and  refused  to  have  anything 
to  do  with  me,  I  lost  faith  in  you,  and  began  to  think  you  a 
thorough -going  coquette  like  all  the  rest.  How  I  wronged 
you,  my  dear  love !  I  should  have  known  that  under  no  cir- 
cumstances could  you  be  untruthful." 

At  his  words,  a  glad  light  springs  to  life  within  her  won- 
derful eyes.  She  is  so  pleased  and  proud  that  he  should  so 
speak  of  her. 

"Do  you  know,  Mona,"  says  the  young  man,  sorrowfully, 
"  you  are  too  good  for  me, — a  fellow  who  has  gone  racket- 
ing all  over  the  world  for  years.  I'm  not  half  worthy  of 
you." 

"  Aren't  you  ?"  says  Mona,  in  her  tender  fashion,  that  im- 
plies so  kind  a  doubt.  Raising  one  hand  (the  other  is  im 
f)risoned),  she  draws  his  face  down  to  her  own.  "  I  wouldn't 
jave  you  altered  in  any  way,"  she  says;  "  not  in  the  smallest 
matter.     As  you  are,  you  are  so  dear  to  me  you  could  not  b© 


76  MRS.  GEOFFREY. 

dearer  ;  and  I  love  you  now,  and  I  shall  always  love  you,  with 
all  my  heart  and  soul." 

"  My  sweet  angel !"  says  her  lover,  pressing  her  to  his  heart. 
And  when  he  says  this  he  is  not  so  far  from  the  ti-uth ;  for 
her  tender  simplicity  and  perfect  faith  and  trust  bring  her  very 
near  to  heaven  1 


CHAPTER    VII. 


HOW  GEOFFREY  AND  MONA  PALL  INTO  STRANGE  COM- 
PANY ;  AND  now  TIIEY  PROFIT  BY  IT  ;  AND  UOW 
MONA,  OUTSTRIPPING  WICKED  VENGEANCE,  SAVES  A  LIFE. 

"  Is  it  very  late  ?"  says  Mona,  awaking  from  her  happy 
dreams  with  a  start. 

"  Not  very,"  says  Geoffrey.  "  It  seems  only  just  now  that 
Mickey  and  the  dogs  left  us."  Together  they  examine  his 
watch,  by  the  light  of  the  moon,  and  see  that  it  is  quite  ten 
o'clock. 

"  Oh,  it  is  dreadfully  late !"  says  Mona,  with  much  com- 
punction.    "  Come,  let  us  hurry." 

''  Well,  just  one  moment,"  says  Geoffrey,  detaining  her. 
"  Let  us  finish  what  we  were  saying.  ^Vould  you  rather  go  to 
the  East  or  to  Rome  ?" 

"  To  Rome,"  says  Mona.  "  But  do  you  mean  it  ?  Can 
you  afford  it?  Italy  seems  so  far  away."  Then,  after  a 
thoughtful  silence,  "  Mr.  Rodney " 

"  Who  on  earth  are  you  speaking  to  ?"  says  Geoffrey. 

"  To  you  !"  with  surprise. 

"  I  am  not  Mr.  Rodney :  Jack  is  that.  Can't  you  call  mo 
anything  else  ?" 

"  What  else  ?"  savs  Mona,  shyly. 

"  Call  me  Geoffrey.' 

"  I  always  think  of  you  as  Geoffrey,"  whispers  she,  with  a 
swift,  sweet  upward  glance ;  "  but  to  say  it  is  so  different.  Well," 
bravely,  "  I'll  try.  Dear,  dear,  dear  Geoffrey,  I  want  to  tell 
you  I  would  be  as  happy  with  you  in  Wicklow  as  in  Rome." 

"  I  know  that,"  says  Geoffrey,  "  and  the  knowledge  makes 
me  more  happy  than  I  can  say.     But  to  Rome  you  shall  go, 


MRS.   GEOFFREY.  77 

whatever  it  may  cost.  And  then  we  shall  return  to  England 
to  our  own  home.  And  then — little  rebel  that  you  are — you 
must  begin  to  look  upon  yourself  as  an  English  subject,  and 
accept  the  queen  as  your  gracious  sovereign." 

"  I  need  no  queen  when  I  have  got  a  king,"  says  the  girl, 
with  ready  wit  and  great  tenderness. 

Geoffrey  raises  her  hand  to  his  lips.  "  Your  king  is  also 
your  slave,"  he  says,  with  a  fond  smile. 

Then  they  move  on  once  more,  and  go  down  the  road  that 
leads  towards  the  farm. 

Again  she  has  grown  silent,  as  though  oppressed  with 
thought ;  and  he  too  is  mute,  but  all  his  mind  is  crowded  with 
glad  anticipations  of  what  the  near  future  is  to  give  him.  Ho 
has  no  regrets,  no  fears.  At  length,  struck  by  her  persistent 
taciturnity,  he  says,  "  What  is  it,  Mona?" 

"  If  ever  you  should  be  sorry  afterwards,"  she  says,  mis- 
erably, still  tormenting  herself  with  unseen  evils, — "  if  ever  I 
should  see  discontent  in  your  eyes,  how  would  it  be  with  mo 
then  ?" 

"  Don't  talk  like  a  penny  illustrated,"  says  Mr.  Rodney,  in 
a  very  superior  tone.  "  If  ever  you  do  see  all  you  seem  to 
anticipate,  just  tell  yourself  I  am  a  cur,  and  despise  me  ac- 
cordingly. But  I  think  you  are  paying  both  yourself  and  me 
very  bad  compliments  when  you  talk  like  that.  Do  try  to 
understand  that  you  are  very  beautiful,  and  far  superior  to  the 
general  run  of  women,  and  that  I  am  only  pretty  well  so  far 
as  men  go." 

At  this  they  both  laugh  heartily,  and  Mona  returns  no 
more  to  the  lachrymose  mood  that  has  possessed  her  for  the 
last  five  minutes. 

The  moon  has  gone  behind  a  cloud,  the  road  is  almost 
wrapped  in  complete  gloom,  when  a  voice,  coming  from  ap- 
parently nowhere,  startles  them,  and  brings  them  back  from 
visions  of  impossible  bliss  to  the  present  very  possible  world. 

"  Hist,  Miss  Mona  !  hist  1"  says  this  voice  close  at  Mona's 
ear.     She  starts  violently. 

"  Oh  !  Paddy,"  she  says,  as  a  small  figure,  unkempt,  and 
only  half  clad,  creeps  through  the  hedge  and  stops  short  in  her 
path. 

"  Don't  go  on,  miss,"  says  the  boy,  with  much  excitement. 
•'  Don't  ye.     I  see  ye  coming',  an',  no  matter  what  they  do 


78  MRS.  GEOFFREY. 

to  me,  I  says  to  myself,  I'll  warn  her  surely.  They're  waitin' 
for  the  agiut  below,  an'  may-be  they  miuht  mistake  ye  for 
some  one  else  in  the  dark,  an'  do  ye  some  harm." 

"  Who  are  they  waiting  for?"  says  Moua,  anxiously. 

"  For  the  agint,  miss.  Oh,  if  ye  tell  on  me  now  they'll  kill 
me.     Maxil,  ye  know  ;  me  lord's  agint." 

"  Waiting — for  what?  Is  it  to  shoot  him  ?"  asks  the  girl, 
breathlessly. 

"  Yes,  miss.  Oh,  Miss  Mona,  if  ye  bethray  me  now  'twill 
be  all  up  wid  me.  Fegs  an'  intirely,  miss,  they'll  murdher 
me  out  uv  hand." 

"  I  won't  betray  you,"  she  says.  "  You  may  trust  me. 
Whore  are  they  stationed  ?" 

"  Down  below  in  the  hollow,  miss, — jist  behind  the  haw- 
thorn-bush. Go  home  some  other  way,  Miss  Mona :  they're 
bint  on  blood." 

"  And,  if  so,  what  are  you  doing  here  ?"  says  Mona,  re- 
provingly. 

"  On'y  watchin',  miss,  to  see  what  they'd  do,"  confesses  he, 
shifting  from  one  foot  to  the  other,  and  growing  palpably  con- 
fused beneath  her  searching  gaze. 

"  Is  it  murder  you  want  to  see  ?"  asks  she,  slowly,  in  a  hor- 
rified tone.  "  Go  home,  Paddy.  Go  home  to  your  mother." 
Then,  changing  her  censuring  manner  to  one  of  entreaty,  she 
says,  softly,  "  Go,  because  I  ask  you." 

"  I'm  off,  miss,"  says  the  miscreant,  and,  true  to  his  word, 
darts  through  the  hedge  again  like  a  shaft  from  a  bow,  and, 
scurrying  through  the  fields,  is  soon  lost  to  sight. 

"  Come  with  me,"  says  Mona  to  Rodney ;  and  with  an  air 
of  settled  determination,  and  a  hard  look  on  her  usually 
mobile  lips,  she  moves  deliberately  towards  the  hawthorn-bush, 
that  is  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  distant. 

"  Mona,"  says  Rodney,  divining  her  intent,  "  stay  you  here 
while  I  go  and  expostulate  with  these  men.  It  is  late,  dar- 
ling, and  their  blood  is  up,  and  they  may  not  listen  to  you, 
let  me  speak  to  them." 

"  You  do  not  understand  them,"  returns  she,  sadly.  "And 
I  do.  Besides,  they  will  not  harm  me.  There  is  no  fear  of 
that.  I  am  not  at  all  afraid  of  them.  And — I  must  speak 
to  them." 

He  knows  her  sufficiently  well  to  refrain  from  further  ex- 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  79 

postulation,  and  just  accompanies  her  silently  along  the  lonely 
road. 

"  It  is  I, — Mona  Scully,"  she  calls  aloud,  when  she  is  within 
a  hundred  yards  of  the  hidiug-pluce.  "  Tim  Kyan,  come 
here :  I  want  you." 

It  is  a  mere  guess  on  her  part, — supported  certainly  by 
many  tales  she  has  heard  of  this  llyan  of  late,  but  a  guess 
nevertheless.  It  proves,  however,  to  be  a  correct  one.  A 
man,  indistinct,  but  unmistakable,  shows  himself  on  the  top  of 
the  wall,  and  pulls  his  forelock  throuuh  force  of  habit. 

"What  are  you  doing  here,  TirnV'sajs  Moua,  bravely, 
calmly,  "  at  this  hour,  and  with — yes,  do  not  seek  to  hide  it 
from  me — a  gun !  And  you  too,  Carthy,"  peering  into  the 
darkness  to  where  another  man,  less  plucky  than  Ryan,  lies 
concealed.  "  Ah !  you  may  well  wish  to  shade  your  face,  since 
it  is  evil  you  have  in  your  heart  this  night." 

"  Do  ye  mane  to  inform  on  us?"  says  Ryan,  slowly,  who  is 
"  a  man  of  a  villainous  countenance,"  laying  his  hand  im- 
pulsively upon  his  gun,  and  glancing  at  her  and  Rodney  alter- 
nately with  murder  in  his  eyes.  It  is  a  critical  moment.  Rod- 
ney, putting  out  his  hand,  tries  to  draw  her  behind  him. 

"  No,  I  am  not  afraid,"  says  the  girl,  resisting  his  effort  to 
put  himself  before  her  ;  and  when  he  would  have  spoken  she 
puts  up  her  hand,  and  warns  him  to  keep  silence. 

"  You  should  know  better  than  to  apply  the  word  '  in- 
former' to  one  of  my  blood,"  she  says,  coldly,  speaking  to 
Ryan,  without  a  tremor  in  her  voice. 

"  I  know  that,"  says  the  man,  sullenly.  "  But  what  of 
him  ?"  pointing  to  Rodney,  the  ruffianly  look  still  on  his  face. 
"  The  Englishman,  I  mane.  Is  he  sure  ?  It's  a  life  for  a  life, 
afther  all,  when  everything  is  towld." 

He  handles  the  gun  again  menacingly.  Mona,  though  still 
apparently  calm,  whitens  perceptibly  beneath  the  cold  penetrat- 
ing rays  of  the  "  pale-faced  moon"  that  up  above  in  "  heaven's 
ebon  vault,  studded  with  stars  unutterably  bright,"  looks  down 
upon  her  perhaps  with  love  and  pity. 

"  Tim,"  she  says,  "  what  have  I  ever  done  to  you  that  you 
should  seek  to  make  me  unhappy?" 

"  I  have  nothing  to  do  with  you.  Go  your  ways.  It  is 
with  him  I  have  to  settle,"  says  the  man,  morosely. 

"  Rut  /  have  to  do  with  him,"  says  Moua,  distinctly. 


CO  MRS.  OEOFFREY. 

At  this,  in  spite  of  everything,  Rodney  hiughs  lightly,  and, 
taking  her  hand  in  his,  draws  it  through  his  arm.  There  ia 
love  and  trust  and  great  content  in  his  laugh. 

"  Eh !"  says  Ryan ;  while  the  other  man  whom  she  has 
called  Carthy — and  who  up  to  this  has  appeared  desirous  of 
concealing  himself  from  view — now  presses  forward  and  re- 
gards the  two  with  lingering  scrutiny. 

"Why,  what  have  you  to  do  with  her?"  says  Ryan,  ad- 
dressing Rodney,  a  gleam  of  something  that  savors  of  amuse- 
ment showing  itself  even  in  his  ill-favored  face.  For  an 
Irishman,  under  all  circumstances,  dearly  loves  "  a  courting,  a 
bo7i-mot.,  and  a  broil." 

"  This  much,"  says  Rodney,  laughing  again  :  "  I  am  going 
to  marry  her,  with  her  leave." 

"  If  that  be  so,  she'll  make  you  keep  from  splittin'  on  us," 
Bays  the  man.  "  So  now  go  ;  we've  work  in  hand  to-night  not 
fit  for  her  eyes." 

Mona  shudders. 

"  Tim,"  she  says,  distractedly,  "  do  not  bring  murder  on 
your  soul.  Oh,  Tim,  think  it  over  while  there  is  yet  time. 
I  have  heard  all  about  it ;  and  I  would  ask  you  to  remember 
that  it  is  not  Mr.  Maxwell's  fault  that  Peggy  Madden  was 
evicted,  but  the  fault  of  his  master.  If  any  one  must  be  shot, 
it  ought  to  be  Lord  Crighton"  (as  his  lordship  is  at  this 
moment  safe  in  Constantinople,  she  says  this  boldly),  "  and 
not  his  paid  servant." 

"  I  dare  say  we'll  get  at  the  lord  by  an'  by,"  says  Ryan,  un- 
touched. "  Go  yer  ways,  will  ye  ?  an'  quick  too.  May-be  if 
ye  thry  me  too  far,  ye'll  learn  to  rue  this  night." 

Seeing  further  talk  is  useless,  Mona  slips  her  hand  into 
Rodney's  and  leads  him  down  the  road. 

But  when  they  have  turned  a  corner  and  are  quite  out  of 
sight  and  hearing,  Rodney  stops  short  and  says,  hurriedly, — 

"  Mona,  can  you  mauage  to  get  home  by  some  short  way 
by  yourself?  Because  I  must  return.  I  must  stand  by  this 
man  they  are  going  to  murder.  I  must  indeed,  darling. 
Forgive  me  that  I  desert  you  here  and  at  such  an  hour,  but  I 
Bee  you  are  safe  in  the  country,  and  five  minutes  will  take  you 
to  the  farm,  and  I  cannot  let  his  life  be  taken  without  striking 
a  blow  for  him." 

"  And  did  you  think  I  was  content  to  let  him  die  ?"  says 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  81 

Mona,  reproachfully.  "  No  !  There  is  a  chance  for  him  still, 
and  I  will  explain  it  to  you.  It  is  early  yet.  He  seldom 
passes  here  before  eleven,  and  it  is  but  a  little  after  ten.  I 
know  the  hour  he  usually  returns,  because  he  always  goes  by 
our  gate,  and  often  I  bid  him  good-night  in  the  summer-time. 
Come  with  me,"  excitedly.  "  I  can  lead  you  by  a  cross-path 
to  the  Ballavacky  road,  by  which  he  must  come,  and,  if  we 
overtake  him  before  he  reaches  that  spot,  we  can  save  his  life. 
Come  ;  do  not  delay  !" 

She  turns  through  a  broken  gap  into  a  ploughed  field,  and 
breaks  into  a  quick  run. 

"  If  we  hurry  we  must  meet  his  car  there,  and  can  send 
him  back  into  Bantry,  and  so  save  him." 

All  this  she  breathes  forth  in  disjointed  sentences  as  she 
rushes,  like  a  light-footed  deer,  across  the  ploughed  laud  into 
the  wet  grass  beyond. 

Over  one  high  bank,  across  a  stile,  through  another  broken 
gap,  on  to  a  wall,  straight  and  broad,  up  which  Rodney  pulls 
her,  carefully  taking  her  down  in  his  arms  at  the  other  side. 

Still  onward. — lightly,  swiftly ;  now  in  sight  of  the  bound- 
less sea,  now  diving  down  into  the  plain,  without  faiutness  or 
despondency,  or  any  other  feeling  but  a  passionate  determina- 
tion to  save  a  man's  life. 

Rodney's  breath  is  coming  more  quickly,  and  he  is  con- 
scious of  a  desire  to  stop  and  pull  himself  together — if  only 
for  a  minute — before  bracing  himself  for  a  second  effort.  But 
to  Mona,  with  her  fresh  and  perfect  health,  and  lithe  and  lis- 
som body,  and  all  the  rich  young  blood  that  surges  upward  in 
her  veins,  excitement  serves  but  to  make  her  more  elastic  ;  and 
with  her  mind  strung  to  its  highest  pitch,  and  her  hot  Iri.sh 
blood  aflame,  she  runs  easily  onward,  until  at  length  the  road 
is  reached  that  is  her  goal. 

Springing  upon  the  bank  that  skirts  the  road  on  one  side, 
she  raises  her  hands  to  her  head,  and  listens  with  all  her  might 
for  the  sound  of  wheels  in  the  distance. 

But  all  is  still. 

Oh,  if  they  should  be  too  late !  If  Maxwell  has  passed 
and  gone  down  the  other  road,  and  is  perhaps  now  already 
"  done  to  death"  by  the  cruel  treacherous  enemy  that  lieth  in 
wait  for  him ! 

Her  blood  heated  by  her  swift  run  grows  cold  again  as  thia 
/ 


82  MRS.  GEOFFREY. 

thought  comes  to  her, — forced  to  the  front  by  the  fact  that 
"  all  the  air  a  solemn  stillness  holds,"  and  that  no  sound  makes 
itself  heard  save  the  faint  sighing  of  the  night-wind  in  the 
woods  up  yonder,  and  the  "  lone  and  melancholy  voice"  of  the 
sea,  a  mile  away,  as  it  breaks  upon  the  silent  shore. 

These  sounds,  vague  and  harmonious  as  they  are,  yet  full 
of  mystery  and  unexplained  sadness,  but  serve  to  heighten  the 
fear  that  chills  her  heart. 

Rodney,  standing  beside  her,  watches  her  anxiously.  She 
throws  up  her  head,  and  pushes  back  her  hair,  and  strains  her 
eyes  eagerly  into  the  darkness,  that  not  all  the  moonbeams 
can  make  less  than  night. 

Alas  !  alas  !  what  foul  deed  may  even  now  be  doing  while 
she  stands  here  powerless  to  avert  it, — her  eiforts  all  in  vain  I 
How  richly  shines  the  sweet  heaven,  studded  with  its  stars ! 
how  cool,  how  fragrant,  is  the  breeze !  how  the  tiny  wavelets 
move  and  sparkle  in  the  glorious  bay  below  I  How  fair  a 
world  it  is  to  hold  such  depths  of  sin !  Why  should  not  rain 
and  storm  and  howling  tempest  mark  a  night  so 

But  hark  I  What  is  this  that  greets  her  ear  ?  The  ring  of 
horses'  feet  upon  the  quiet  road  ! 

The  girl  clasps  her  hands  passionately,  and  turns  her  eyes 
on  llodney. 

"  Mona,  it  is — it  must  be  he  I"  says  Geoffrey,  taking  her 
hand ;  and  so  they  both  stand,  almost  breathless,  on  the  high 
bank,  listening  intently. 

Now  they  can  hear  the  sound  of  wheels ;  and  presently  a 
light  tax-cart  swings  round  the  corner,  drawn  by  a  large,  bony, 
bay  mare,  and  in  which  sits  a  heavy-looking,  elderly  man,  in  a 
light  overcoat. 

"  Mr.  Maxwell  I  Mr.  Maxwell  1"  cries  Mona,  as  he  ap- 
proaches them ;  and  the  heavy  man,  drawing  up,  looks  round 
at  her  with  keen  surprise,  bending  his  head  a  little  forward, 
as  though  the  better  to  pierce  the  gloom. 

"  Miss  Scully,  is  it  you?"  he  says,  at  length  ;  "  and  here  at 
this  hour  ?" 

"  Go  back  to  Bantry,"  says  Mona,  not  heeding  his  evident 
surprise,  "  at  once, — now.  Do  not  delay.  There  are  thoso 
waiting  for  you  on  the  Tullymore  road  who  will  take  your 
life.  I  have  run  all  this  way  to  warn  you.  Oh,  g»,  <^ack, 
while  there  is  yet  time  I" 


MRS.  GEOFFRET.  83 

"  Do  you  mean  tliey  want  to  slioot  me  ?"  says  Maxwell,  in 
a  hurried  tone. 

"  Yes ;  I  know  it !  Oh,  do  not  wait  to  ask  questions,  but 
go.  Even  now  they  may  have  suspected  my  purpose,  and 
may  be  coming  here  to  prevent  your  ever  returning." 

Each  moment  of  delay  only  helps  to  increase  her  nervous 
excitement. 

"But  who  are  they?  and  where?"  demands  the  agent, 
completely  taken  aback. 

"  I  can  tell  you  no  more  ;  I  will  not ;  and  you  must  never 
ask  me.  It  is  enough  that  I  speak  the  truth,  and  that  I  have 
been  able  to  save  your  life." 

"  How  can  I  thank  you  ?"  says  Maxwell,  "  for  all " 

"  Some  other  day  you  can  do  that.  Now  go,"  says  Mona, 
imperiously,  waving  her  hand. 

But  Maxwell  still  lingers,  looking  first  at  her  and  then  very 
intently  at  her  companion. 

"  It  is  late,"  he  says.  "  You  should  be  at  home,  child. 
Who  am  I,  that  you  should  do  me  so  great  a  service  ?"  Then, 
turning  quietly  to  Rodney,  "  I  have  not  the  pleasure  of  your 
acquaintance,  sir,"  he  says,  gravely ;  "  but  I  entreat  you  to 
take  Miss  Scully  safely  back  to  the  Farm  without  delay." 

"  You  may  depend  upon  me,"  says  Rodney,  lifting  his  hat, 
and  respecting  the  elder  man's  care  for  the  well-being  of  his 
beloved,  even  in  the  midst  of  his  own  immediate  danger. 
Then,  in  another  moment,  Maxwell  has  turned  his  horse's 
head,  and  is  soon  out  of  sight. 

The  whole  scene  is  at  an  end.  A  life  has  been  saved. 
And  they  two,  Mona  and  Geoffrey,  are  once  more  alone  be- 
neath the  "  earnest  stars." 

"  Take  me  down,"  says  Mona,  wearily,  turning  to  her 
lover,  as  the  last  faint  ring  of  the  horse's  feet  dies  out  on  the 
breeze. 

"  You  are  tired,"  says  he,  tenderly. 

"  A  little,  now  it  is  all  over.  Yet  I  must  make  great  haste 
homeward.  Uncle  Brian  will  be  uneasy  about  me  if  he  dis- 
covers my  absence,  though  he  knew  I  was  going  to  the  Bay. 
Come,  we  must  hurry." 

So  in  silence,  but  hand  in  hand,  they  move  back  through 
the  dewy  meads,  meeting  no  one  until  they  reach  the  little 
wooden  <rate  that  leads  to  her  home. 


84  MRS.  OEOFFREY. 

Here  they  behold  the  faithful  Biddy,  craning  her  long  neck 
up  and  down  the  road,  and  filled  with  wildest  anxiety. 

"  Oh,  may  I  uiver  agin  see  the  light,"  cries  this  excitable 
damsel,  rushing  out  to  Mona,  "  if  I  iver  hoped  to  lay  eyes  on 
yer  face  again  1  Where  were  ye  at  all,  darlin'  ?  An'  I 
breakin'  me  heart  wid  fear  for  ye.  Did  ye  know  Tim  Ryan 
was  out  to-night  ?  When  I  heerd  tell  of  that  from  that  boy 
of  the  Cantys',  I  thought  I'd  have  dhropped  !  'Tis  no  good 
he's  up  to.  Come  in,  asthore :  you  must  be  near  kilt  with 
the  cowld." 

"  No ;  I  am  quite  warm,"  says  Mona,  in  a  low,  sad  tone. 

"  'Tis  I've  bin  prayin'  for  ye,"  says  Biddy,  taking  her  mis- 
tress's hand  and  kissing  it  fondly.  "  On  me  bended  knees  I 
was  with  the  blessid  beads  for  the  last  two  hours.  An'  shure 
I've  had  me  reward,  now  I  see  ye  safe  home  agin.  But  in- 
deed. Miss  Mona,  'tis  a  sore  time  I've  had  uv  it." 

"  And  Uncle  Brian  ?"  asks  Mona,  fearfully. 

"  Oh,  I  got  the  ould  man  to  bed  hours  ago  ;  for  I  knew  if 
he  stayed  up  that  he'd  get  mortial  weariu',  an'  be  the  death  of 
us  if  he  knew  ye  were  out  so  late.  An'  truth  to  say,  Miss 
Mona,"  changing  her  tone  from  one  of  extreme  joy  and  thank- 
fulness to  another  of  the  deepest  censure,  "  'twas  the  world 
an'  all  of  bad  behavior  to  be  galavantin'  out  at  this  hour." 

"  The  night  w.as  so  lovely, — so  mild,"  says  Mona,  faintly, 
concealment  in  any  form  being  new  to  her,  and  very  foreign 
to  her  truthful  nature ;  "  and  I  knew  Mickey  would  tell  you 
it  was  all  right." 

"An'  what  brought  him  home,  the  murdherin'  scamp,'' 
gays  Miss  Bridget,  with  more  vehemence  than  politeness,  "  in- 
fitid  of  stayin'  wid  ye  to  see  ye  came  to  no  harm  ?" 

"  He  had  to  see  the  mare  made  up,  and  the  pigs  fed,"  says 
Mona. 

"  Is  that  what  he  towld  ye  ?  Oh,  the  blaggard  I"  says 
Bridget.  "  An'  nary  sign  did  he  do  since  his  return,  but  sit 
be  the  fire  an'  smoke  his  dhudheen.  Oh,  be  the  powers  of 
Moll  Kelly,  but  I'll  pay  him  out  for  his  lies !  lie's  soakin' 
it  now,  anyhow,  as  I  sint  him  up  to  the  top  of  the  hill  agin, 
to  see  what  had  become  of  ye." 

"  Bridget,"  says  Mona,  "  will  you  go  in  and  get  me  a  cup 
of  tea  before  I  go  to  bed?     I  am  tired." 

"  I  will,  darlin',  shurely,"  says  Bridget,  who  adores  the 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  85 

ground  she  walks  on;    and  then,  turning,  she  leaves  her. 
Mona  lays  her  hand  on  Geoffrey's  arm. 

"  Promise  me  you  will  not  go  back  to  Coolnagurtheen  to- 
night?" she  says,  earnestly.  "At  the  inn,  down  in  the  vil- 
lage, they  will  give  you  a  bed." 

"  But,  my  dearest,  why  ?  There  is  not  the  slightest  daa- 
ger  now,  and  my  horse  is  a  good  one,  and  I  sha'n't  be  any 
time  getting " 

"  I  won't  hear  of  it !"  says  Mona,  interrupting  him  vehe- 
mently. "  You  would  have  to  go  up  that  road  again,"  with 
a  strong  shudder.  "  I  shall  not  go  in-doors  until  you  give  me 
your  honor  you  will  stay  in  the  village  to-night." 

Seeing  the  poor  child's  terrible  fear  and  anxiety,  and  that 
she  is  completely  overwrought,  he  gives  way,  and  lets  her  have 
the  desired  promise. 

"  Now,  that  is  good  of  you,"  she  says,  gratefully,  and  then, 
as  he  stoops  to  kiss  her,  she  throws  her  arms  around  his  neck 
and  bursts  into  tears. 

"  You  are  worn  out,  my  love,  my  sweetheart,"  says  Geof- 
frey, very  tenderly,  speaking  to  her  as  though  she  is  in  years 
the  child  that,  in  her  soul,  she  truly  is.  "  Come,  Mona,  you 
will  not  cry  on  this  night  of  all  others  that  has  made  me  yours, 
and  you  mine !  If  this  thought  made  you  as  happy  as  it 
makes  me,  you  could  not  cry.  Now  lift  your  head,  and  let 
me  look  at  you.  There !  you  have  given  yourself  to  me,  dar- 
ling, and  there  is  a  good  life,  I  trust,  before  us :  so  let  us  dwell 
on  that,  and  forget  all  minor  evils.  Together  we  can  defy 
trouble  I" 

"  Yes,  that  is  a  thought  to  dry  all  tears,"  she  says,^  very 
sweetly,  checking  her  sobs  and  raising  her  face,  on  which  ia 
dawning  an  adorable  smile.  Then,  sighing  heavily, — a  sigh 
of  utter  exhaustion, — "  You  have  done  me  good,"  she  says. 
"  I  shall  sleep  now ;  and  you,  my  dearest,  will  be  safe.  Good- 
night until  to-morrow !" 

"  How  many  hours  there  are  in  the  night  that  we  never 
count!"  says  Geoffrey,  impatiently.  "Good-night,  Mona! 
To-morrow's  dawn  I  shall  call  my  dearest  friend." 

8 


86  MRS.  GEOFFREY. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

now   GEOFFREY    AND    MONA   PLAN    A   TRANSFORMATION 

SCENE, 

Time,  with  lovers,  "  flies  with  swallows'  wings ;"  they 
neither  feel  nor  heed  it  as  it  passes,  so  all  too  full  of  haste 
the  moments  seem.  They  are  to  them  replete  with  love 
and  happiness  and  sweet  content.  To-day  is  an  accomplished 
joy,  to-morrow  will  dawn  for  no  other  purpose  but  to  bring 
them  together.     So  they  think  and  so  they  believe. 

Rodney  has  interviewed  the  old  man,  her  uncle ;  has  told 
him  of  his  great  and  lasting  love  for  this  pearl  among  women  ; 
has  described  in  a  very  few  words,  and  without  bombast,  his 
admiration  for  Mona ;  and  Brian  Scully  (though  with  suffi- 
cient national  pride  to  suppress  all  undue  delight  at  the  young 
man's  proposal)  has  given  a  hearty  consent  to  their  union,  and 
is  in  reality  flattered  and  pleased  beyond  measure  at  this 
match  for  "  his  girl."  For,  no  matter  how  the  Irish  may 
rebel  against  landlordism  and  aristocracy  in  general,  deep  down 
in  their  hearts  lies  rooted  an  undying  fealty  to  old  blood. 

To  his  mother,  however,  he  has  sent  no  word  of  Mona, 
knowing  only  too  well  how  the  news  of  his  approaching  mar- 
riage with  this  "  outer  barbarian"  (as  she  will  certainly  deem 
his  darling)  will  be  received.  It  is  not  cowardice  that  holds 
his  pen,  as,  were  all  the  world  to  kneel  at  his  feet  and  implore 
him  or  bribe  him  to  renounce  his  love,  all  such  pleading  and 
bribing  would  be  in  vain.  It  is  that,  knowing  argument  to 
be  useless,  he  puts  ofi"  the  evil  hour  that  may  bring  pain  to 
his  mother  to  the  last  moment. 

When  she  knows  Mona  she  will  love  her, — who  could  help  it? 
BO  he  argues ;  and  for  this  reason  he  keeps  silence  until  such 
time  as,  his  marriage  being  a  fait  accompli^  hopeless  expostu- 
lation will  be  of  no  avail,  and  will,  therefore,  be  suppressed. 

Meanwhile,  the  hours  go  by  "  laden  with  golden  grain." 
E'  ry  day  makes  Mona  dearer  and  more  dear,  her  sweet  and 
g'  leless  nature  being  one  calculated  to  create,  with  growing 
k  iowlcdge,  an  increasing  admiration  and  tenderness.     Indeed, 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  87 

each  happy  afternoon  spent  with  her  serves  but  to  forge  an- 
other Hnk  in  the  chain  that  binds  him  to  her. 

To-day  is  "  so  cool,  so  calm,  so  bright."  that  Geoffrey's 
heart  grows  glad  within  him  as  he  walks  along  the  road  that 
leads  to  the  farm,  his  gun  upon  his  shoulder,  his  trusty  dog  at 
his  heels. 

All  through  the  air  the  smell  of  heather,  sweet  and  fragrant, 
reigns.  Far  down,  miles  away,  the  waves  rush  inland,  glinting 
and  glistening  in  the  sunlight. 

"  Blue  roll  the  waters,  blue  the  skj 
Spreads  like  an  ocean  hung  on  high." 

The  birds,  as  though  once  more  led  by  the  balmy  mildness 
of  the  day  into  the  belief  that  summer  has  not  yet  forsaken 
them,  are  singing  in  the  topmost  branches  of  the  trees,  from 
which,  with  every  passing  breeze,  the  leaves  fall  lightly. 

From  the  cabins  pale  wreaths  of  smoke  rise  slowly,  scarce 
stirred  by  the  passing  wind.  Going  by  one  of  these  small 
tenements,  before  which  the  inevitable  pig  is  wallowing  in  an 
unsavory  pool,  a  voice  comes  to  him,  fresh  and  joyous,  and 
plainly  full  of  pleasure,  that  thrills  through  his  whole  being. 
It  is  to  him  what  no  other  voice  ever  has  been,  or  ever  can  be 
again.     It  is  Mona's  voice  ! 

Again  she  calls  to  him  from  within. 

"  Is  it  you  ?"  she  says,  "  Come  in  here,  Geoffrey.  I  want 
you." 

How  sweet  it  is  to  be  wanted  by  those  we  love  !  Geoffrey, 
lowering  his  gun,  stoops  and  enters  the  lowly  cabin  (which,  to 
say  the  truth,  is  rather  uninviting  than  otherwise)  with  more 
alacrity  than  he  would  show  if  asked  to  enter  the  queen's 
palace.  Yet  what  is  a  palace  but  the  abode  of  a  sovereign  ? 
and  for  the  time  being,  at  least,  Rodney's  sovereign  is  in  pos- 
session of  this  humble  dwelling.  So  it  becomes  sacred,  and 
almost  desirable,  in  his  eyes. 

She  is  sitting  before  a  spinning-wheel,  and  is  deftly  drawing 
the  wool  through  her  fingers  ;  brown  little  fingers  they  are, 
but  none  the  less  dear  in  his  sight. 

"  I'm  here,"  she  cries,  in  the  glad  happy  tones  that  have 
been  ringing  their  changes  in  his  heart  all  day. 

An  old  crone  is  sitting  over  a  turf  fire  that  glows  and  burns 
dimly  in  its  subdued  fashion.     Hanging  over  it  is  a  three- 


88  MRS.  OEOFFREY. 

legged  pot,  in  which  boil  the  "  praties"  for  the  "  boys' "  dinners, 
who  will  be  coming  home  presently  from  their  work. 

"  What  luck  to  find  you  here,"  says  Geoffrey,  stooping  over 
the  industrious  spinner,  and  (after  the  slightest  hesitation) 
kissing  her  fondly  in  spite  of  the  presence  of  the  old  woman, 
who  is  regarding  them  with  silent  curiosity,  largely  mingled 
with  admiration.  The  ancient  dame  sees  plainly  nothing 
strange  in  this  embrace  of  Geoffrey's,  but  rather  something 
sweet  and  to  be  approved.  She  smiles  amiably,  and  nods  her 
old  head,  and  mumbles  some  quaint  Irish  phrase  about  love 
and  courtship  and  happy  youth,  as  though  the  very  sight  of 
these  handsome  lovers  fills  her  withered  breast  with  glad  recol- 
lections of  bygone  days,  when  she,  too,  liad  her  "  man"  and 
her  golden  hopes.  For  deep  down  in  the  hearts  of  all  the 
sons  and  daughters  of  Ireland,  whether  they  be  young  or  old, 
is  a  spice  of  romance,  living  and  inextinguishable. 

Rising,  the  old  dame  takes  a  chair,  dusts  it,  and  presents  it 
to  the  stranger,  with  a  courtesy  and  a  wish  that  he  will  make 
himself  welcome.  Then  she  goes  back  again  to  the  chimney- 
corner,  and,  taking  up  the  bellows,  blows  the  fire  beneath  the 
potatoes,  turning  her  back  in  this  manner  upon  the  young 
people  with  a  natural  delicacy  worthy  of  better  birth  and 
better  education. 

Mona,  who  has  blushed  rosy  red  at  his  kiss,  is  now  beaming 
on  her  lover,  and  has  drawn  back  her  skirts  to  admit  of  his 
coming  a  little  closer  to  her.  He  is  not  slow  to  avail  himself 
of  this  invitation,  and  is  now  sitting  with  his  arm  thrown 
across  the  back  of  the  wooden  chair  that  hulds  Mona,  and 
with  eyes  full  of  heartfelt  gladness  fixed  upon  her. 

"  You  look  like  Marguerite.  A  very  lovely  Marguerite," 
says  Geoffrey,  idly,  gazing  at  her  rather  dreamily. 

"  Except  that  my  hair  is  rolled  up,  and  is  too  dark,  isn't  it? 
I  have  read  about  her,  and  I  once  saw  a  picture  of  Marguerite 
in  the  Gallery  in  Dublin,  and  it  was  very  beautiful.  I  re- 
member it  brought  tears  to  my  eyes,  and  Aunt  Anastasia  said 
I  was  too  fanciful  to  be  happy.  Her  story  is  a  very  sad  one, 
isn't  it?" 

"  Very.  And  you  are  not  a  bit  like  her,  after  all,"  says 
Geoffrey,  with  sudden  compunction,  "  because  you  are  going 
to  be  as  happy  as  the  days  are  long,  if  I  can  make  you  so." 

"  One  must  not  hope  for  perfect  happiness  on  this  earth," 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  89 

says  Mona,  gravely  ;  "  but  at  least  I  know,"  with  a  soft  and 
trusting  glance  at  him,  "  I  shall  be  happier  than  most  people." 

"  What  a  darling  you  are !"  says  llodney,  in  a  low  tone ; 
and  then  something  else  follows,  that,  had  she  seen  it,  would 
have  caused  the  weather-beaten  old  person  at  the  fire  another 
thrill  of  tender  recollection. 

"What  are  you  doing?"  asks  Geofi"rey,  presently,  when 
they  have  returned  to  every-day  life. 

"  I  am  spinning  flax  for  Betty,  because  she  has  rheumatism 
in  her  poor  shoulder,  and  can  do  nothing,  and  this  much  flax 
must  be  finished  by  a  certain  time.  I  have  nearly  got  through 
my  portion  now,"  says  Mona ;  "'  and  then  we  can  go  home." 

"  When  I  bring  you  to  my  home,"  says  Geoffrey,  "  I  shall 
have  you  painted  just  in  that  gown,  and  with  a  spinning-wheel 
before  you ;  and  it  shall  be  hung  in  the  gallery  among  the 
other — very  inferior — beauties." 

"  Where?"  says  Mona,  looking  up  quickly. 

"  Oh  !  at  home,  you  know,"  says  Mr.  Rodney,  quickly,  dis- 
covering his  mistake.  For  the  moment  he  had  forgotten  his 
former  declaration  of  poverty,  or,  at  least,  his  consenting 
silence,  when  she  had  asked  him  about  it. 

"  In  the  National  Gallery,  do  you  mean  ?"  asks  Mona,  with 
a  pretty,  puzzled  frown  on  her  brow.  "  Oh,  no,  Geofi"rey  ;  I 
shouldn't  like  that  at  all.  To  be  stared  at  by  everybody, — it 
wouldn't  be  nice,  would  it?" 

Rodney  laughs,  in  an  inward  fashion,  biting  his  lip  and 
looking  down. 

"  Very  well ;  you  sha'n't  be  put  there,"  he  says.  "  But 
nevertheless  you  must  be  prepared  for  the  fact  that  you  will 
undoubtedly  be  stared  at  by  the  common  herd,  whether  you 
are  in  the  National  Gallery  or  out  of  it." 

"  But  why?"  says  Mona,  trying  to  read  his  face.  "  Am  I 
so  diiTerent  from  other  people?" 

"  Very  diS'erent,"  says  Rodney. 

'*  That  is  what  I  am  afraid  of  always,"  says  Mona,  a  little 
wistfully. 

"  Don't  be  afraid.  It  is  quite  the  correct  thing  to  be  eccen- 
trie  nowadays.  One  is  nowhere  if  not  bizarre,"  says  Rodney, 
laughing ;  "  so  I  dare  say  you  will  find  yourself  the  very  height 
of  the  fashion." 

"  Now  I  think  you  are  making  fun  of  me,"  says  Mona, 
8* 


90  MRS.  GEOFFREY. 

smiling  sweetly ;  and,  lifting  her  hand,  she  pinches  his  ear 
liglitly,  and  very  softly,  lest  she  should  hurt  him. 

Here  the  old  woman  at  the  fire,  who  has  been  getting  up 
and  down  from  her  three-legged  stool  during  the  past  few  min- 
utes, and  sniffing  at  the  pot  in  an  anxious  manner,  gives  way 
to  a  loud  sigh  of  relief.  Lifting  the  pot  from  its  crook,  she 
lays  it  on  the  earthen  floor. 

Then  she  strains  the  water  from  it,  and  looks  with  admira- 
tion upon  its  steaming  contents.  The  "  murphies"  (as,  I  fear, 
she  calls  the  potatoes)  are  done  to  a  turn. 

"  May-be,"  says  Betty  Corcoran,  turning  in  a  genial  fashion 
to  Mona  and  Geoflfrey,  "  ye'd  ate  a  pratie,  would  ye,  now  ? 
They're  raal  nice  an'  floury.  Ye  must  be  hungry.  Miss  Mona, 
afthcr  all  the  work  ye've  gone  through ;  an'  if  you  an'  your 
gintleman  would  condescind  to  the  like  of  my  dinner,  'tis 
ready  for  ye,  an'  welcome  ye  are  to  it.  Do,  now!"  heartily. 
"  The  praties  is  gran'  this  year, — praises  be  for  all  mercies. 
Amen." 

"  They  do  look  nice,"  says  Mona,  "  and  I  am  hungry.  If 
we  won't  be  a  great  trouble  to  you,  Betty,"  with  graceful 
hesitation,  "  I  think  we  should  like  some." 

"  Arrah  !  throuble  is  it  ?"  says  Betty,  scornfully.  "  Tisn't 
throuble  I'm  thinkin'  of  anyway,  when  you're  by." 

"  Will  you  have  something  to  eat,  Geoffrey  ?"  says  Mona. 

"  Thank  you,"  says  Geofl'rey,  "  but " 

"  Yes,  do,  alannah  1"  says  the  old  lady,  standing  with  one 
hand  upon  her  hips  and  the  other  holding  tightly  a  prodigious 
"  Champion."     "  'Twill  set  ye  up  afther  yer  walk." 

*'  Then,  thank  you,  Mrs.  Corcoran,  I  will  have  a  potato," 
Bays  Rodney,  gratefully,  honest  hunger  and  the  knowledge 
that  it  will  please  Mona  to  be  friendly  with  "  her  people,"  as 
Bhe  calls  them,  urging  him  on.  "  I'm  as  hungry  as  I  can  be," 
he  says. 

"  So  ye  are,  bless  ye  both  I"  says  old  Betty,  much  delighted, 
and  forthwith,  going  to  her  dresser,  takes  down  two  plates, 
and  two  knives  and  forks,  of  pattern  unknown  and  of  the 
purest  pot-metal,  after  which  she  once  more  returns  to  the  re- 
vered potatoes. 

Geoffrey,  who  would  be  at  any  moment  as  polite  to  a  dairy- 
maid as  to  a  duchess,  follows  her,  and,  much  to  her  discomfort, 
— though  she  is  too  civil  to  say  so, — helps  her  to  lay  th«» 


MRS.  GEOFF  REV.  91 

tabic.  He  even  insists  on  filling  a  dish  with  the  potatoes,  and 
having  severely  burned  his  fingers,  and  having  nobly  sup- 
pressed all  appearance  of  pain, — beyond  the  dropping  of  two 
or  three  of  the  esculent  roots  upon  the  ground, — brings  them 
in  triumph  to  the  spot  where  Moua  is  sitting. 

"  It  might  be  that  ye'd  take  a  dhrop  of  new  milk,  too," 
Bays  Betty,  "  on  hospitable  thoughts  intent,"  placing  before 
her  visitors  a  little  jug  of  milk  she  has  all  day  been  keeping 
apart,  poor  soul  !  for  her  own  delectation. 

Not  knowing  this,  Mona  and  GeoS'rey  (whose  flask  is 
empty)  accept  the  proflfered  milk,  and  make  merry  over  their 
impromptu  feast,  while  in  the  background  the  old  woman 
smiles  upon  them  and  utters  little  kindly  sentences. 

Ten  minutes  later,  having  bidden  their  hostess  a  hearty 
farewell,  they  step  out  into  the  open  air  and  walk  towards  the 
farm. 

"  You  have  never  told  me  how  many  people  are  in  your 
house  ?"  says  Mona,  presently.  "  Tell  me  now.  I  know 
about  your  mother,  and,"  shyly,  "  about  Nicholas  ;  but  is 
there  any  one  else?" 

"  Well,  Jack  is  home  by  this  time,  I  suppose, — that's  my 
second  brother ;  at  least  he  was  expected  yesterday ;  and 
Violet  Mansergh  is  very  often  there ;  and  as  a  rule,  you  know, 
there  is  always  somebody ;  and  that's  all." 

The  description  is  graphic,  certainly. 

"  Is — is  Violet  Mansergh  a  pretty  girl  ?"  asks  Mona,  grasp- 
ing instinctively  at  the  fact  that  any  one  called  Violet  Man- 
sergh may  be  a  possible  rival. 

"  Pretty  ?  No.  But  she  dresses  very  swagger,  and  always 
looks  nice,  and  is  generally  correct  all  through,"  replies  Mr. 
Kodney,  easily. 

"  I  know,"  says  Mona,  sadly. 

"  She's  the  girl  my  mother  wanted  me  to  marry,  you  know," 
goes  on  Rodney,  unobservant,  as  men  always  are,  of  the  small 
signals  of  distress  hung  out  by  his  companion. 

"  Oh,  indeed !"  says  Mona  ;  and  then,  with  downcast  eyea, 
"  but  I  d/jut  know,  because  you  never  told  me  before." 

"  I  thought  I  did,"  says  Geoffrey,  waking  slowly  to  a  sense 
of  the  situation. 

"  Well,  you  didn't,"  says  Mona.  "Are  you  engaged  to 
her?" 


92  MRS.  GEOFFREY. 

"  If  I  was,  how  could  I  ask  you  to  marry  me  ?"  returns  he, 
in  a  tone  so  hurt  that  she  grows  abashed. 

"  I  hope  she  isn't  in  love  with  you,"  she  says,  slowly. 

"  You  may  bet  anything  you  like  on  that,"  says  Geoffrey, 
cheerfully.  "  She  cares  for  me  just  about  as  much  as  I  care 
for  her, — which  means  exactly  nothing." 

"  I  am  very  glad,"  says  Mona,  in  a  low  tone. 

"Why,  Mona?" 

"  Because  I  could  not  bear  to  think  any  one  was  made  un- 
happy by  me.  It  would  seem  as  though  some  evil  eye  was 
resting  on  our  love,"  says  Mona,  raising  her  thoughtful,  earn- 
est eyes  to  his.  "  It  must  be  a  sad  thing  when  our  happiness 
causes  the  misery  of  others." 

"  Yet  even  were  it  so  you  would  love  me,  Mona  ?" 

"  I  shall  always  love  you,"  says  the  girl,  with  sweet  serious- 
ness, "  better  than  my  life.  But  in  that  case  I  should  always, 
too,  have  a  regret." 

"  There  is  no  need  for  regret,  darling,"  says  he.  "  I  am 
heart-whole,  and  I  know  no  woman  that  loves  me,  or  for  whose 
affection  I  should  ask,  except  yourself" 

"  I  am  indeed  dear  to  you,  I  think,"  says  Mona,  softly  and 
thankfully,  growing  a  little  pale  through  the  intensity  of  her 
emotion. 

"  '  Perdition  catch  my  soul,  but  I  do  love  thee,'  "  replies  he, 
quite  as  softly. 

Then  she  is  pleased,  and  slips  her  hand  into  his,  and  goes 
along  the  quiet  road  beside  him  with  a  heart  in  which  high 
jubilee  holds  sway. 

"  Now  tell  me  something  else,"  she  says,  after  a  little  bit. 
"  Do  all  the  women  you  know  dress  a  great  deal  ?" 

"  Some  of  them  ;  not  all.  I  know  a  considerable  few  who 
dress  so  little  that  they  might  as  well  leave  it  alone." 

"  P]h  ?"  says  Mona,  innocently,  and  stares  at  him  with  an 
expression  so  full  of  bewilderment,  being  puzzled  by  his  tone 
more  than  his  words,  that  presently  Mr.  Kodney  becomes  con- 
scious of  a  feeling  akin  to  shame.  Some  remembrance  of  a 
line  that  speaks  of  "  a  soul  as  white  as  heaven"  comes  to  him, 
and  he  makes  haste  to  hide  the  real  meaning  of  his  words. 

"  I  mean,  some  of  them  dress  uncommon  badly,"  he  says, 
with  much  mendacity  and  more  bad  grammar. 

"  Now,  do  they?"  says  Mona.     "I  thought  they  alwaya 


MRS.   OEOFFREV.  93 

wore  lovely  clothes.  lu  books  they  always  do  ;  but  I  was  too 
youug  when  with  Aunt  Auastasia  in  Dublin  to  go  out.  Some- 
how, what  one  imagines  is  sure  to  be  wrong.  I  remember," 
laughing,  "  when  I  firmly  believed  the  queen  never  was  seen 
without  her  crown  on  her  head." 

"  Well,  it  always  is  on  her  head,"  says  Mr.  Rodney,  at  which 
ridiculous  joke  they  both  laugh  as  gayly  as  though  it  were  a 
bon-mot  of  the  first  water.  That  "  life  is  thorny  and  youth 
is  vain"  has  not  as  yet  occurred  to  either  of  these  two.  Nay, 
more  were  you  even  to  name  this  thought  to  them,  they  would 
rank  it  as  flat  blasphemy,  and  you  a  false  prophet, — love  and 
laughter  being,  up  to  this,  the  burden  of  their  song. 

Yet  after  a  moment  or  two  the  smile  fades  from  Mona's 
mobile  lip,  that  ever  looks  as  if,  in  the  words  of  the  oid  song, 
"  some  bee  has  stung  it  newly,"  and  a  pensive  expression  takes 
its  place. 

"  1  think  I'd  like  to  see  myself  in  a  regular  evening  gown," 
she  says,  wistfully. 

"  So  should  I,"  says  Rodney,  eagerly,  but  incorrectly ;  "  at 
least,  not  myself,  but  you, — in  something  handsome,  you  know, 
open  at  the  neck,  and  with  your  pretty  arms  bare,  as  they  were 
the  first  day  I  saw  you." 

"  How  you  remember  that,  now  !"  says  Mona,  with  a  heav- 
enly smile,  and  a  faint  pressure  of  the  fingers  that  still  rest  in 
his.  "  Yes,  I  should  like  to  be  sure  before  I  marry  you  that — 
that — fashionable  clothes  would  become  me.  But  of  course," 
regretfully,  "  you  will  understand  I  haven't  a  gown  of  that  sort. 
I  once  sat  in  Lady  Crighton's  room  while  her  maid  dressed  her 
for  dinner :  so  I  know  all  about  it." 

She  sighs,  then  looks  at  the  sky,  and — sighs  again. 

"  And  do  you  know,"  she  says,  with  charming  naivete,  not 
looking  at  him,  but  biting  a  blade  of  grass  in  a  distractingly 
pretty  and  somewhat  pensive  fashion,  "  do  you  know  her  neck 
and  arms  are  not  a  patch  on  mine?" 

"  You  needn't  tell  me  that.  I'm  positive  they  couldn't  be 
named  in  the  same  day,"  says  Geoffrey,  enthusiastically,  who 
never  in  his  life  saw  Lady  Crighton,  or  her  neck  or  arms. 

"  No,  they  are  not.  Geoffrey,  peoiJe  look  much  better  when 
they  are  beautifully  dressed,  don't  they?" 

"  Well,  on  the  principle  that  fine  feathers  make  fine  birds, 
I  suppose  they  do,"  acknowledges  Geoffrey,  reluctantly. 


94  MRS.  QEOFFREF 

At  this  she  glances  with  scorn  upon  the  quakerish  and  some- 
what quaint  gray  gown  in  which  she  Ls  clothed,  and  in  which 
she  is  looking  far  sweeter  than  she  knows,  for  in  her  face  lie 
"  love  enshrined  and  sweet  attractive  grace." 

"  Yet,  in  spite  of  all  the  fine  feathers,  no  one  ever  crept  into 
my  heart  but  my  own  Mona,"  says  the  young  man,  putting 
his  hand  beneath  her  chin,  which  is  soft  and  rounded  as  a 
baby's,  and  turning  her  face  to  his.  He  hates  to  see  the  faint 
chagrin  that  lingers  on  it  for  a  moment ;  for  his  is  one  of  those 
tender  natures  that  cannot  bear  to  see  the  thing  it  loves  endure 
the  smallest  torment. 

"  Some  women  in  the  great  world  overdo  it,"  he  goes  on, 
"  and  choose  things  and  colors  utterly  unsuited  to  their  style. 
They  are  slaves  to  fashion.     But 

"  '  My  love  in  her  attiro  doth  show  her  wit; 
It  doth  so  well  become  her.'  " 

"  Ah,  how  you  flatter !"  says  Mona.  Nevertheless,  being  a 
woman,  and  the  flattery  being  directed  to  herself,  she  takes  it 
kindly. 

"  No,  you  must  not  think  that.  To  wear  anything  that 
becomes  you  must  be  the  perfection  of  dressing.  Why  weai 
a  Tarn  O'Shanter  hat  when  one  looks  hideous  in  it?  And 
then  too  much  study  spoils  efiect :  you  know  what  Herrick 
says: 

"'A  careless  shoe-string,  in  whose  tie 
I  see  a  wild  civility, 
Does  more  bewitch  me  than  when  art 
Is  too  precise  in  every  part.'  " 

"  How  pretty  that  is  I  Yet  I  should  like  you  to  see  me,  if 
only  for  once,  as  you  have  seen  others,"  says  Mona. 

"  I  should  like  it  too.  And  it  could  be  managed,  couldn't 
it?     I  suppose  I  could  get  you  a  dress." 

He  says  this  quickly,  yet  fearfully.  If  she  should  take  his 
proposal  badly,  what  shall  he  do  ?  He  stares  with  flattering 
persistency  upon  a  distant  donkey  that  adorns  a  neighboring 
field,  and  calmly  awaits  fate.  It  is  for  once  kind  to  him. 
Mona,  it  is  quite  evident,  fails  to  see  any  impropriety  in  his 
speech. 

"  Could  you  ?"  she  says,  hopefully.     "  How  ?" 


MRS.   GEOFFREY.  95 

Mr.  Rodney,  basely  forsaking  the  donkey,  returns  to  hia 
mutton.  "  There  must  be  a  dress-maker  in  Dublin,"  he  says, 
"  and  we  could  write  to  her.     Don't  you  know  one  ?" 

"  I  don't,  but  I  know  Lady  Mary  and  Miss  Blake  always 
get  their  things  from  a  woman  called  Manning." 

"Then  Manning  it  shall  be,"  says  Geoffrey,  gayly.  "I'll 
run  up  to  Dublin,  and  if  you  give  me  your  measure  I'll  bring 
a  gown  back  to  you." 

"  Oh,  no,  don't,"  says  Mona,  earnestly.  Then  she  stops 
short,  and  blushes  a  faint  sweet  crimson. 

"But  why?"  demands  he,  dense  as  men  will  be  at  times. 
Then,  as  she  refuses  to  enlighten  his  ignorance,  slowly  the 
truth  dawns  upon  him. 

"  Do  you  mean  that  you  would  really  miss  me  if  I  left  you 
for  only  one  day  ?"  he  asks,  delightedly.  "  Mona,  tell  me  the 
truth." 

"  Well,  then,  sure  you  know  I  would,"  confesses  she,  shyly 
but  honestly.  Whereupon  rapture  ensues  that  lasts  for  a  full 
minute. 

"  Very  well,  then  ;  I  sha'n't  leave  you  ;  but  you  shall  have 
that  dress  all  the  same,"  he  says.  "  How  shall  we  arrange 
about  it  ?" 

"  1  can  give  you  the  size  of  my  waist  and  my  shoulders, 
and  my  length,"  says  Mona,  thoughtfully,  yet  with  a  touch  of 
inspiration. 

"  And  what  color  becomes  you  ?  Blue  ?  that  would  suit 
your  eyes,  and  it  was  blue  you  used  to  wear  last  month." 

"  Yes,  blue  looks  very  nice  on  me.  Geoffrey,  if  Uncle  Brian 
hears  of  this,  will  he  be  angry  ?" 

"  We  needn't  risk  it.  And  it  is  no  harm,  darling,  because 
you  will  soon  be  my  wife,  and  then  I  shall  give  you  every- 
thing. When  the  dress  comes  I'll  send  it  up  to  you  by  my 
man,  and  you  must  manage  the  rest." 

"  I'll  see  about  it.  And,  oh,  Geoffrey,  I  do  hope  you  will 
like  me  in  it,  and  think  me  pretty,"  she  says,  anxiously,  half 
fearful  of  this  gown  that  is  meant  to  transform  a  "  beggar 
maid"  into  a  queen  fit  for  "  King  Cophetua."  At  least  such 
is  her  reading  of  the  part  before  her. 

And  so  it  is  arranged.  And  that  evening  Geoffrey  indites 
a  letter  to  Mrs.  Manning,  Grafton  Street,  Dublin,  that  brings 
a  smile  to  the  lips  of  that  cunning  modiste. 


96  MRS.  OEOFFREY. 


CHAPTER   IX. 

now  GEOFFREY  AND  MONA  DILIGENTLY  WORK  UP  THE 
TRANSFORMATION  SCENE;  AND  HOW  SUCCESS  CR0WN3 
THEIR  EFFORTS. 

In  due  course  the  wonderful  gown  arrives,  and  is  made 
welcome  at  the  farm,  where  Geoffrey  too  puts  in  an  appearance 
about  two  hours  later. 

Moua  is  down  at  the  gate  waiting  for  him,  evidently  brimful 
of  information. 

"  Well,  you  have  got  it?"  asks  he,  in  a  whisper.  Mystery 
seems  to  encircle  them  and  to  make  heavy  the  very  air  they 
breathe.  In  truth,  I  think  it  is  the  veil  of  secrecy  that  en- 
velops their  small  intrigue  that  makes  it  so  sweet  to  them. 
They  might  be  children,  so  delighted  are  they  with  the  success 
of  their  scheme. 

"  Yes,  I  have  got  it,"  also  in  a  subdued  whisper.  "  And, 
oh,  Geoffrey,  it  is  just  too  lovely  !  It's  downright  delicious  ; 
and  satin,  too  !  It  must" — reproachfully — "  have  cost  a  great 
deal,  and  after  all  you  told  me  about  being  ^joor.'  But,"  with 
a  sudden  change  of  tone,  forgetting  reproach  and  extravagance 
and  everything,  "  it  is  exactly  the  color  I  love  best,  and  what 
I  have  been  dreaming  of  for  years" 

"  Put  it  on  you."  says  Geoffrey. 

"  What !  now  T'  with  some  hesitation,  yet  plainly  filled 
with  an  overwhelming  desire  to  show  herself  to  him  without 
loss  of  time  in  the  adorable  gown.  "  If  I  should  be  seen ! 
Well,  never  mind ;  I'll  risk  it.  Go  down  to  the  little  green 
glade  in  the  wood,  and  I'll  be  with  you  before  you  can  say 
Jack  Robinson." 

She  disappears,  and  Geoffrey,  obedient  to  orders,  lounges 
oflF  to  the  green  glade,  that  now  no  longer  owns  rich  coloring, 
but  is  strewn  with  leaves  from  the  gaunt  trees  that  stand  in 
solemn  order  like  grave  sentries  round  it. 

He  might  have  invoked  Jack  Robinson  a  score  of  times 
had  he  so  wished,  he  might  even  have  gone  for  a  very  respect- 
able walk,  before  his  eyes  are  again  gladdened  by  a  sight  of 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  97 

Mona.  Minutes  have  given  place  to  minutes  many  times, 
when,  at  length,  a  figure  wrapped  in  a  long  cloak  and  with  a  light 
woollen  shawl  covering  her  head  comes  quickly  towards  him 
across  the  rustic  bridge,  and  under  the  leafless  trees  to  where 
he  is  standing. 

Glancing  round  fearfully  for  a  moment,  as  though  desirous 
of  making  sure  that  no  strange  eyes  are  watching  her  move- 
ments, she  lets  the  loose  cloak  fall  to  the  ground,  and,  taking 
with  careful  haste  the  covering  from  her  head,  slips  like  Cin- 
derella from  her  ordinary  garments  into  all  the  glories  of  a 
fete  gown.  She  steps  a  little  to  one  side,  and,  throwing  up 
her  head  with  a  faint  touch  of  coquetry  that  sits  very  sweetly 
on  her,  glances  triumphantly  at  Geoifrey,  as  though  fully  con- 
scious that  she  is  looking  exquisite  as  a  dream. 

The  dress  is  composed  of  satin  of  that  peculiarly  pale  blue 
that  in  some  side-lights  appears  as  white.  It  is  opened  at  the 
neck,  and  has  no  sleeves  to  speak  of  As  though  some  kindly 
fairy  had  indeed  been  at  her  beck  and  call,  and  had  watched 
with  careful  eyes  the  cutting  of  the  robe,  it  fits  to  a  charm. 
Upon  her  head  a  little  mob-cap,  a  very  marvel  of  blue  satin 
and  old  lace,  rests  lovingly,  making  still  softer  the  soft  tender 
face  beneath  it. 

There  is  a  sparkle  in  Mona's  eyes,  a  slight  severing  of  her 
lips,  that  bespeak  satisfaction  and  betray  her  full  of  very  in- 
nocent appreciation  of  her  own  beauty.  She  stands  well  back, 
with  her  head  held  proudly  up,  and  with  her  hands  lightly 
clasped  before  her.     Her  attitude  is  full  of  unstudied  grace. 

Her  eyes,  as  I  tell  you,  are  shining  like  twin  stars.  Her 
whole  soul  is  possessed  of  this  hope,  that  he  for  whom  almost 
she  lives  must  think  her  good  to  look  at.  And  good  indeed 
she  is,  and  very  perfect ;  for  in  her  earnest  fece  lie  such  inward 
godliness  and  sweet  trust  as  make  one  feel  the  better  for  only 
a  bare  glance  at  her. 

Geoffrey  is  quite  dumb,  and  stands  gazing  at  her,  surprised 
at  the  amazing  change  a  stuff,  a  color,  can  make  in  so  short  a 
time.  Beautiful  she  always  is  in  his  sight,  but  he  wonders 
that  until  now  it  never  occurred  to  him  what  a  sensation  she  is 
likely  to  create  in  the  London  world.  When  at  last  he  does 
give  way  to  speech,  driven  to  break  his  curious  silence  by 
Bomethiug  in  her  face,  he  says  nothing  of  the  gown,  but  only 
this. 

By  9 


98  MRS.  GEOFFREY. 

"  Oh,  Mona,  will  you  always  love  me  as  you  do  now  ?" 

His  tone  is  full  of  sadness  and  longing  and  something  akin 
to  fear.  He  has  been  much  in  the  world,  and  has  seen  many 
of  its  evil  ways,  and  this  is  the  result  of  his  Knowledge.  As 
he  gazes  on  and  wonders  at  her  marvellous  beauty,  for  an  in- 
stant (a  most  unworthy  instant)  he  distrusts  her.  Yet  surely 
never  was  more  groundless  doubt  sustained,  as  one  might 
know  to  look  upon  her  eyes  and  mouth,  for  in  the  one  lies 
honest  love,  and  in  the  other  firmness. 

Her  face  changes.  He  has  made  no  mention  of  the  treas- 
ured gown,  has  said  no  little  word  of  praise. 

"  I  have  disappointed  you,"  she  says,  tremulously,  tears 
rising  quickly.     "  I  am  a  failure  I     I  am  not  like  the  others." 

"You  are  the  most  beautiful  woman  I  ever  saw  in  all  my 
life,"  returns  Rodney,  with  some  passion. 

"  Then  you  are  really  pleased  ?  I  am  just  what  you  want 
me  to  be?  Oh  1  how  you  frightened  me  !"  says  the  girl,  lay- 
ing her  hand  upon  her  heart  with  a  pretty  gesture  of  relief. 

"  Don't  ask  me  to  flatter  you.  You  will  get  plenty  to  do 
that  by  and  by,"  says  Geoffrey,  rather  jealously,  rather  bitterly. 

" '  By  and  by'  I  shall  be  your  wife,"  says  Mona,  archly, 
"  and  then  my  days  for  receiving  flattery  will  be  at  an  end. 
Sure  you  needn't  grudge  me  a  few  pretty  words  now." 

What  a  world  is  to  be  opened  up  to  her  1  How  severe  the 
test  to  which  she  will  be  exposed  1  Does  she  really  think  the 
whole  earth  is  peopled  with  beings  pure  and  perfect  as  herself? 

"  Yes,  that  is  true,"  he  says,  in  a  curious  tone,  in  answer  to 
her  words,  his  eyes  fixed  moodily  upon  the  ground.  Then 
suddenly  he  lifts  his  head,  and  as  his  gaze  meets  hers  some  of 
the  truth  and  sweetness  that  belong  to  her  springs  from  her 
to  him  and  restores  him  once  again  to  his  proper  self. 

He  smiles,  and,  turning,  kneels  before  her  in  mock  humility 
that  savors  of  very  real  homage.  Taking  her  hand,  he  presses 
it  to  his  lips. 

"  Will  your  majesty  deign  to  confer  some  slight  sign  of 
favor  upon  a  very  devoted  servant  ?" 

His  looks  betray  his  wish.  And  Mona,  stooping,  very 
willingly  bestows  upon  him  one  of  the  sweetest  little  kisses 
imaginable. 

"I  doubt  your  queen  lacks  dignity,"  she  says,  with  a  quick 
blush,  when  she  has  achievea  her  tender  crime. 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  99 

"  My  queen  lacks  nothing,"  says  Geoffrey.  Then,  as  he 
feels  the  rising  wind  that  is  soughing  through  the  barren  trees, 
he  says,  hurriedly,  "  My  darling,  you  will  catch  cold.  Put 
on  your  wraps  again." 

"  Just  in  one  moment,"  says  the  wilful  beauty.  "  But  I 
must  first  look  at  myself  altogether.  I  have  only  seen  myself 
in  little  bits  up  to  this,  my  glass  is  so  small." 

Running  over  to  the  river  that  flows  swiftly  but  serenely  a 
few  yards  from  her,  she  leans  over  the  bank  and  gazes  down 
lingeringly  and  with  love  into  the  dark  depths  beneath  that 
cast  up  to  her  her  own  fair  image. 

The  place  she  has  chosen  as  her  mirror  is  a  still  pool  fringed 
with  drooping  grasses  and  trailing  ferns  that  make  yet  more 
dark  the  sanded  floor  of  the  stream. 

"  Yes,  I  am  pretty,"  she  says,  after  a  minute's  pause,  with 
a  long-drawn  sigh  of  deepest  satisfaction.  Then  she  glances 
at  Geoffrey.  "  And  for  your  sake  I  am  glad  of  it.  Now, 
come  here  and  stand  beside  me,"  she  goes  on,  presently,  hold- 
ing out  her  hand  backwards  as  though  loath  to  lose  sight  of 
her  own  reflection.     "  Let  me  see  how^oit  look  in  the  water." 

So  he  takes  her  hand,  and  together  they  lean  over  the  brink 
and  survey  themselves  in  Nature's  glass.  Lightly  their  faces 
sway  to  and  fro  as  the  running  water  rushes  across  the  pool, 
— sway,  but  do  not  part ;  they  are  always  together,  as  though 
in  anticipation  of  that  happy  time  when  their  lives  shall  be 
one.  It  seems  like  a  good  omen  ;  and  Mona,  in  whose  breast 
rests  a  little  of  the  superstition  that  lies  innate  in  every  Irish 
heart,  turns  to  her  lover  and  looks  at  him. 

He,  too,  looks  at  her.  The  same  thought  fills  them  both. 
As  they  are  together  there  in  the  water,  so  (pray  they)  "  may 
we  be  together  in  life."  This  hope  is  sweet  almost  to  solem- 
nity. 

The  short  daylight  fades ;  the  wind  grows  higher ;  the 
whole  scene  is  curious,  and  very  nearly  fantastical.  The  pretty 
girl  in  her  clinging  satin  gown,  and  her  gleaming  neck  and 
arms,  bare  and  soft  and  white,  and  the  tiny  lace-fringed  cap 
that  crowns  her  fairness.  The  gaunt  trees  branching  over- 
head that  are  showering  down  upon  her  all  their  fading  wealth 
of  orange  and  crimson  and  russet-colored  leaves,  that  serve  to 
throw  out  the  glories  of  her  dress.  The  brown-green  sward 
is  beneath  her,  the  river  runs  with  noiseless  mirth  beside  her. 


100  MRS.  GEOFFREY. 

rushing  with  faint  music  over  sand  and  pebble  to  the  ocean  far 
below.  Standing  before  her  is  her  lover,  gazing  at  her  with 
adoring  eyes. 

Yet  all  things  in  this  passing  world  know  an  end.  In  one 
short  moment  the  perfect  picture  is  spoiled.  A  huge  black 
dog,  bursting  through  the  underwood,  flings  himself  lovingly 
upon  Mona,  threatening  every  moment  to  destroy  her  toilet. 

"  It  is  Mr.  Moore's  retriever  I"  cries  Mona,  hurriedly,  in  a 
startled  tone.  "  I  must  run.  Down,  Fan  !  down  !  Oh,  if 
he  catches  me  here,  in  this  dress,  what  will  he  think  ?  Quick, 
Geoffrey,  give  me  my  shawl  1" 

She  tucks  up  her  dignified  train  in  a  most  undignified  haste, 
while  Geoffrey  covers  up  all  the  finery  with  the  crimson  shawl. 
The  white  cloud  is  once  more  thrown  over  the  dainty  cap  ;  all 
the  pretty  coloring  vanishes  out  of  sight ;  and  Mona,  after  one 
last  lingering  glance  at  Geoffrey,  follows  its  example.  She, 
too,  flies  across  the  rural  bridge  into  the  covert  of  her  own 
small  domain. 

It  is  over  ;  the  curtain  is  down  ;  the  charming  transforma- 
tion-scene has  reached  its  end,  and  the  fairy-queen,  doffing  her 
radiant  robes,  descends  once  more  to  the  level  of  a  paltry 
mortal. 


CHAPTER  X. 


HOW  MONA,  GROWING  INQUISITIVE,  ASKS  QUESTIONS  ;  AND 
HOW  GEOFFREY,  BEING  BROUGHT  TO  BAY,  MAKES  CON- 
FESSIONS THAT  BODE  BUT  EVIL  TO  HIS  FUTURE  PEACE, 
AND    BREED    IMMEDIATE   WAR 

"  Oh  !  catch  him  I  do  catch  him  I"  cries  Mona.  "  Loot, 
there  he  is  again  1  Don't  you  see  ?"  with  growing  excitement. 
"  Over  there,  under  that  bush.  Why  on  earth  can't  you  see 
him  ?  Ha  !  there  he  is  again  I  Little  wretch  I  Turn  him 
back,  Geoffrey ;  it  is  our  last  chance." 

She  has  crossed  the  rustic  bridge  that  leads  into  the  Moore 
plantations,  in  hot  pursuit  of  a  young  turkey  that  is  evidently 
filled  with  a  base  determination  to  spend  his  Sunday  out. 

Geoffrey  is  rusking  hither  and  thither,  without  his  hat,  and 


MRS.  QEOFFRET.  101 

without  his  temper,  in  a  vain  endeavor  to  secure  the  rebel  and 
reduce  him  to  order.  He  is  growing  warm,  and  his  breath  is 
coming  more  quickly  than  is  exactly  desirable  ;  but,  being  pos- 
sessed with  the  desire  to  conquer  or  die,  he  still  holds  on.  He 
races  madly  over  the  ground,  crying  "  Shoo  I"  every  now  and 
then  (whatever  that  may  mean)  in  a  desperate  tone,  as  though 
impressed  with  the  belief  that  this  simple  and  apparently 
harmless  expletive  must  cow  the  foe. 

"  Look  at  him,  under  that  fern  there  !"  exclaims  Mona,  in 
her  clear  treble,  that  has  always  something  sweet  and  plaintive 
in  it.  "  On  your  right — no !  not  on  your  left.  Sure  you 
know  your  right,  don't  you?"  with  a  full,  but  unconscious, 
touch  of  scorn.  "  Hurry  !  hurry  !  or  he  will  be  gone  again. 
Was  there  ever  such  a  hateful  bird  !  With  his  good  food  in 
the  yard,  and  his  warm  house,  and  his  mother  crying  for  him  I 
Ah !  there  you  have  him  1  No  I — yes  !  no  1  He  is  gone 
again  1" 

"  He  isn't !"  says  Geoffrey,  panting.  "  I  have  him  at  last  I" 
Whereupon  he  emerges  from  a  wilderness  of  ferns,  drawing 
after  him  and  holding  up  triumphantly  to  the  light  the  wan- 
dering bird,  that  looks  more  dead  than  alive,  with  all  its 
feathers  drooping,  and  its  breath  coming  in  angry  cries. 

"  Oh,  you  have  him !"  says  Mona,  with  a  beaming  smile, 
that  is  not  reciprocated  by  the  captured  turkey.  "  Hold  him 
tight :  you  have  no  idea  how  artful  he  is.  Sure  I  knew  you'd 
get  him,  if  any  one  could  !" 

There  is  admiration  blended  with  relief  in  her  tone,  and 
Geoffrey  begins  to  feel  like  a  hero  of  Waterloo. 

"  Now  carry  him  over  the  bridge  and  put  him  down  there, 
and  he  must  go  home,  whether  he  likes  it  or  not,"  goes  on 
Mona  to  her  warrior,  whereupon  that  renowned  person,  armed 
with  the  shrieking  turkey,  crosses  the  bridge.  Having  gained 
the  other  side,  he  places  the  angry  bird  on  its  mother  earth, 
and  with  a  final  and  almost  tender  "  Shoo  !"  sends  him  scuttling 
alont'  to  the  farm-yard  in  the  distance,  where,  no  doubt,  he  ia 
received  either  with  open  arms  and  kisses,  or  with  a  sounding 
"  spank,"  as  our  American  cousins  would  say,  by  his  terrified 
mamma. 

He  finds  Mona  on  his  return  sitting  on  a  bank,  laughing 
and  trying  to  recover  her  breath. 

"  I  hardly  think  this  is  Sunday  work,"  she  says,  lightly ; 
9* 


102  MRS.  GEOFFREY. 

"  but  the  poor  little  thing  would  have  died  if  left  out  all 
night.     Wasn't  it  well  you  saw  him?" 

"  Most  fortunate,"  says  Rodney,  with  deep  gravity.  "  I 
consider  I  have  been  the  means  of  preventing  a  public  calam- 
ity.    Why,  that  bird  might  have  haunted  us  later  on." 

"  Fancy  a  turkey  ghost,"  says  Mona.  "  How  ugly  it  would 
be  I     It  would  have  all  its  feathers  off,  of  course." 

"  Certainly  not,"  says  Geoffrey  :  "  I  blush  for  you.  I  never 
yet  heard  of  a  ghost  that  was  not  strictly  decent.  It  would 
have  had  a  winding  sheet,  of  course.  Come,  let  us  go  for  a 
walk." 

"  To  the  old  fort?"  asks  Mona,  starting  to  her  feet. 

"  Anywhere  you  like.  I'm  sure  we  deserve  some  compen- 
sation for  the  awful  sermon  that  curate  gave  us  this  morning." 

So  they  start,  in  a  lazy,  happy-go-lucky  fashion,  for  their 
walk,  conversing  as  they  go,  of  themselves  principally,  as  all 
true  lovers  will. 

But  the  fort,  on  this  evening  at  least,  is  never  reached. 
Mona,  coming  to  a  stile,  seats  herself  comfortably  on  the  top 
of  it,  and  looks  with  mild  content  around. 

"  Are  you  going  no  farther  ?"  asks  Rodney,  hoping  sin- 
cerely she  will  say  "  No."     She  does  say  it. 

"  It  is  so  nice  here,"  she  says,  with  a  soft  sigh,  and  a 
dreamy  smile,  wherev  ion  he  too  climbs  and  seats  himself  be- 
side her.  As  they  are  new  situated,  there  is  about  half  a  yard 
between  them  of  passable  wall  crowned  with  green  sods,  across 
which  they  can  hold  sweet  converse  with  the  utmost  affability. 
The  evening  is  fine  ;  the  heavens  promise  to  be  fair  ;  the  earth 
beneath  is  calm  and  full  of  silence  as  becomes  a  Sabbath  eve ; 
yet,  alas  !  Mona  strikes  a  chord  that  presently  flings  harmony 
to  the  winds. 

"  Tell  me  about  your  mother,"  she  says,  folding  her  hands 
easily  in  her  lap.  "  I  mean, — what  is  she  like  ?  Is  she  cold, 
or  proud,  or  stand-off?"     There  is  keen  anxiety  in  her  tone. 

"  Eh  ?"  says  Geoffrey,  rather  taken  aback.  "  Cold"  and 
''  proud"  he  cannot  deny,  even  to  himself,  are  words  that  suit 
his  mother  rather  more  than  otherwise. 

*'  I  mean,"  says  Mona,  flushing  a  vivid  scarlet,  **  is  she 
Btern  ?" 

"  Oh,  no,"  says  Geoffrey,  hastily,  recovering  himself  just  in 
time  J  "  she's  all  right,  you  know,  my  mother  ;  and  you'll  like 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  103 

her  awfully  when — when  you  know  her,  and  when — when  she 
knows  you." 

"  WUl  that  take  her  long  ?"  asks  Mona,  somewhat  wistfully, 
feeling,  without  underetanding,  some  want  in  his  voice. 

"  1  don't  see  how  it  could  take  any  one  long,"  says 
Bodney. 

"  Ah  I  that  is  because  you  are  a  man,  and  because  you  love 
me,"  says  this  astute  reader  of  humanity.  "  But  women  are 
so  different.     Suppose — suppose  she  never  gets  to  like  me  ?" 

"  Well,  even  that  awful  misfortune  might  be  survived.  We 
can  live  in  our  own  home  '  at  ease,'  as  the  old  song  says,  until 
she  comes  to  her  senses.  By  the  by,  do  you  know  you  have 
never  asked  me  about  your  future  home, — my  own  place, 
Leighton  Hall  ?  and  yet  it  is  rather  well  worth  asking  about, 
because,  though  small,  it  is  one  of  the  oldest  and  prettiest 
places  in  the  county." 

"  Leighton  Hall,"  repeats  she,  slowly,  fixing  upon  him  her 
dark  eyes  that  are  always  so  full  of  truth  and  honesty.  "  But 
you  told  me  you  were  poor.     That  a  third  son " 

"  Wasn't  much  I"  interrupts  Geoffrey,  with  an  attempt  at 
carelessness  that  rather  falls  through  beneath  the  gaze  of  those 
searching  eyes.  "  Well,  no  more  he  is,  you  know,  as  a  rule, 
unless  some  kind  relative  comes  to  his  assistance." 

"  But  you  told  me  no  maiden  aunt  had  ever  come  to  your 
assistance,"  goes  on  Mona,  remorselessly. 

"  In  that  I  spoke  the  truth,"  says  Mr.  Rodney,  with  a 
shameless  laugh,  "  because  it  was  an  uncle  who  left  me  some 
money." 

"  You  have  not  been  quite  true  with  me,"  says  Mona,  in  a 
curious  way,  never  removing  her  gaze  and  never  returning  his 
smile.     "  Are  you  rich,  then,  if  you  are  not  poor?" 

"  I'm  a  long  way  off  being  rich,"  says  the  young  man,  who 
is  palpably  amused,  in  spite  of  a  valiant  effort  to  suppress  all 
outward  signs  of  enjoyment.  "  I'm  awfully  poor  when  com- 
pared with  some  fiellows,  I  dare  say  I  must  come  in  for 
something  when  my  other  uncle  dies,  but  at  present  I  have 
only  fifteen  hundred  pounds  a  year." 

'■'■Only  r  says  Mona.  "  Do  you  know,  Mr.  Moore  has  no 
more  than  that,  and  we  think  him  very  rich  indeed  1  No, 
you  have  not  been  open  with  me :  you  should  have  told  me. 
I  haven't  ever  thought  of  you  to  myself  as  being  a  rich  njan. 


104  MRS.   GEOFFREY. 

Now  I  shall  have  to  beein  and  think  of  you  all  over  again  in 
quite  another  light."     She  is  evidently  deeply  aggrieved. 

"  But,  my  darling  child,  I  can't  help  the  fact  that  George 
Rodney  left  me  the  Hall,"  says  Geoffrey,  deprecatingly,  re- 
ducing the  space  between  them  to  a  mere  nothing,  and  slip- 
ping his  arm  round  her  waist.  "  And  if  I  was  a  beggar  on 
the  face  of  the  earth,  I  could  not  love  you  more  than  I  do,  nor 
could  you,  I  hope" — reproachfully — "  love  me  better  either." 

The  reproachful  ring  in  his  voice  does  its  intended  work. 
The  soft  heart  throws  out  resentment,  and  once  more  gives 
shelter  to  gentle  thoughts  alone.  She  even  consents  to  Rod- 
ney's laying  his  cheek  against  hers,  and  faintly  returns  the 
pressure  of  his  hand. 

"  Yet  I  think  you  should  have  told  me,"  she  whispers,  as  a 
last  fading  censure.  "  Do  you  know  you  have  made  me  very 
unhappy?" 

"  Oh,  no,  I  haven't,  now,"  says  Rodney,  reassuringly. 
"  You  don't  look  a  bit  unhappy ;  you  only  look  as  sweet  as 
an  angel." 

"  You  never  saw  an  angel,  so  you  can't  say,"  says  Mona, 
still  sadly  severe.  "  And  I  am  unhappy.  How  will  your 
mother,  Mrs.  Rodney,  like  your  marrying  me,  when  you  might 
marry  so  many  other  people, — that  Miss  Mansergh,  for  in- 
stance?" 

"  Oh,  nonsense  !"  says  Rodney,  who  is  in  high  good  humor 
and  can  see  no  rocks  ahead.  "  When  my  mother  sees  you  she 
will  fall  in  love  with  you  on  the  spot,  as  will  everybody  else. 
But  look  here,  you  know,  you  mustn't  call  her  Mrs.  Rodney  1" 

"  Why  ?"  says  Mona.  "  I  couldn't  well  call  her  anything 
else  until  I  know  her." 

"  That  isn't  her  name  at  all,"  says  Geoffrey.  "  My  father 
was  a  baronet,  you  know ;  she  is  Lady  Rodney." 

"  What !"  says  Mona.  And  then  she  grows  quite  pale,  and, 
slipping  off  the  stile,  stands  a  few  yards  away  from  him. 

"  That  puts  an  end  to  everything,"  she  says,  in  a  dreadful 
little  voice  that  goes  to  his  heart,  "  at  once.  I  could  never 
face  any  one  with  a  title.  What  will  she  say  when  she  hears 
you  are  going  to  marry  a  farmer's  niece  ?  It  is  shameful  of 
you,"  says  Mona,  with  as  much  indignation  as  if  the  young 
man  opposite  to  her,  who  is  making  strenuous  but  vain  efforts 
to  speak,  has  just  been  convicted  of  some  heinous  crime.    "  It 


MRS.  QEOFFREV.  105 

is  disgraceful  I     I  wonder  at  you  I     That  is  twice  you  have 
deceived  me." 

"  If  you  would  only  hear  me " 

"  I  have  heard  too  much  already.  I  won't  listen  to  any 
more.  '  Lady  Rodney  I'  I  dare  say" — with  awful  meaning 
in  her  tone — '■'you  have  got  a  title  too T  Then,  sternly, 
"  Have  you  ?" 

"  No,  no  indeed,  I  give  you  my  honor,  no,"  says  Geofirey, 
very  earnestly,  feeling  that  Fate  has  been  more  than  kind  to 
him  in  that  she  has  denied  him  a  handle  to  his  name. 

"  You  are  sure  ?" — doubtfully. 

"  Utterly  certain." 

"  And  your  brother?" 

"  Jack  is  only  Mr.  Rodney  too." 

"  I  don't  mean  him," — severely :  "  I  mean  the  brother  you 
call  '  Old  Nick' — Old  Nick  indeed  !"  with  suppressed  anger. 

"  Oh,  he  is  only  called  Sir  Nicholas.  Nobody  thinks  much 
of  that.  A  baronet  is  really  never  of  the  slightest  impor 
tance,"  says  Geoffrey,  anxiously,  feeling  exactly  as  if  he  were 
making  an  apology  for  his  brother. 

"  That  is  not  correct,"  says  Mona.  "  We  have  a  baronet 
here.  Sir  Owen  O'Connor,  and  he  is  thought  a  great  deal  of. 
I  know  all  about  it.  Even  Lady  Mary  would  have  married 
him  if  he  had  asked  her,  though  his  hair  is  the  color  of  an 
orano'e.  Mr.  Rodney," — laying  a  dreadful  stress  upon  the 
prefix  to  his  name, — "  go  back  to  England  and" — tragically — 
"  forget  me  ?" 

"  I  shall  do  nothing  of  the  kind,"  says  Mr.  Rodney,  indig 
nantly.  "  And  if  you  address  me  in  that  way  again  I  shall 
cut  my  throat." 

"  Much  better  do  that" — gloomily — "  than  marry  me. 
Nothing  comes  of  unequal  marriages  but  worry,  and  despair, 
and  misery,  and  death,'''  says  Mona,  in  a  fearful  tone,  empha- 
sizing each  prophetic  word  with  a  dismal  nod. 

"  You've  been  reading  novels,"  says  Rodney,  contemptu- 
ously. 

"  No,  I  haven't,"  says  Mona,  indignantly. 

"  Then  you  are  out  of  your  mind,"  says  Rodney. 

"  No,  I  am  not.  Anything  but  that ;  and  to  be  rude"— 
slowly — "  answers  no  purpose.  But  I  have  some  common 
sense,  I  hope." 


106  MRS.  GEOFFREY. 

"  I  hate  women  with  common  sense.  In  plainer  language 
it  means  no  heart." 

"  Now  you  speak  sensibly.  The  sooner  you  begin  to  hate 
me  the  better." 

"  A  nice  time  to  offer  such  advice  as  that,"  says  Rodney, 
moodily.  "  But  I  sha'n't  take  it.  Mona," — seizing  her 
hands  and  speaking  more  in  passionate  excitement  than  even 
in  love,—"  say  at  once  you  will  keep  your  word  and  marry 
me." 

"  Nothing  on  earth  shall  bring  me  to  say  that,"  says  Mona, 
Bolemnly.     "  Nothing  I" 

"  Then  don't,"  says  Rodney,  furiously,  and,  flinging  her 
hands  from  him,  he  turns  and  strides  savagely  down  the  hUl, 
and  is  lost  to  sight  round  the  corner. 

But,  though  "  lost  to  sight,"  to  memory  he  is  most  un- 
pleasantly "  dear."  Standing  alone  in  the  middle  of  the  de- 
serted field,  Mona  pulls  to  pieces,  in  a  jerky,  fretful  fashion, 
a  blade  of  grass  she  has  been  idly  holding  during  the  late 
warm  discussion.  She  is  honestly  very  much  frightened  at 
what  she  has  done,  but  obstinately  declines  to  acknowledge  it 
even  to  her  own  heart.  In  a  foolish  but  natural  manner  she 
tries  to  deceive  herself  into  the  belief  that  what  has  happened 
has  been  much  to  her  own  advantage,  and  it  will  be  a  strict 
wisdom  to  rejoice  over  it. 

"  Dear  me,"  she  says,  throwing  up  her  dainty  head,  and 
flinging,  with  a  petulant  gesture,  the  unoffending  grass  far 
from  her,  "  what  an  escape  I  have  had !  How  his  mother 
would  have  hated  me  1  Surely  I  should  count  it  lucky  that 
I  discovered  all  about  her  in  time.  Because  really  it  doesn't 
so  very  much  matter ;  I  dare  say  I  shall  manage  to  be  quite 
perfectly  happy  here  again,  after  a  little  bit,  just  as  I  have 
been  all  my  life — before  he  came.  And  when  he  is  gone!'' — 
ehe  pauses,  chokes  back  with  stern  determination  a  very  heavy 
eigh,  and  then  goes  on  hastily  and  with  suspicious  bitterness, 
*'  What  a  temper  he  has  I  Horrid  !  The  way  he  flung  away 
my  hand,  as  if  he  detested  me,  and  flounced  down  that  hill, 
as  if  he  hoped  never  to  set  eyes  on  me  again !  With  no 
'  good-by,'  or  '  by  your  leave,'  or  '  with  your  leave,'  or  a  word 
of  farewell,  or  a  backward  glance,  or  anything!  I  do  hope 
he  has  taken  me  at  my  word,  and  that  he  will  go  straight 
back,  without  seeing  me  again,  to  his  own  odious  country." 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  107 

She  tells  herself  this  lie  without  a  blush,  perhaps  because 
she  is  so  pale  at  the  bare  thought  that  her  eyes  may  never 
again  be  gladdened  by  his  presence,  that  the  blood  refuses  to  rise. 

A  bell  tinkles  softly  in  the  distance.  The  early  dusk  la 
creeping  up  from  behind  the  distant  hills,  that  are  purple 
with  the  soft  and  glowing  heather.  The  roar  of  the  rushing 
wavis  comes  from  the  bay  that  lies  behind  those  encircling  hills, 
■nd  i^alls  like  sound  of  saddest  music  on  her  ear.     Now  comea 

"Still  evening  on,  and  twilight  gray 
Has  in  her  sober  livery  all  things  clad." 

And  Mona,  rousing  herself  from  her  unsatisfactory  reverie, 
draws  her  breath  quickly  and  then  moves  homeward. 

But  first  she  turns  and  casts  a  last  lingering  glance  upon 
the  sloping  hill  down  which  her  sweetheart,  filled  with  angry 
thoughts,  had  gone.  And  as  she  so  stands,  with  her  hand  to 
her  forehead,  after  a  little  while  a  slow  smile  of  conscious 
power  comes  to  her  lips  and  tarries  i-ound  them,  as  though 
fond  of  its  resting-place. 

Her  lips  part.  An  expression  that  is  half  gladness,  half 
amusement,  brightens  her  eyes. 

"  I  wonder,"  she  says  to  herself,  softly,  "  whether  he  will 
be  with  me  at  the  usual  hour  to-morrow,  or — a  little  earlier  I" 

Then  she  gathers  up  her  gown  and  runs  swiftly  back  to  the 
farm. 


CHAPTER   XL 

UOW  GEOFFREY  RETURNS  TO  HIS  ALI  EGIANCE — HOW  HE 
DISCOVERS  HIS  DIVINITY  DEEP  IN  THE  PERFORMANCE 
OF  SOME  MYSTIC  RITES  WITHIN  THE  COOL  PRECINCTS 
OP  HER  TEMPLE — AND  HOW  HE  SEEKS  TO  REDUCE 
HER  TO  REASON  FROM  THE  TOP  OP  AN  INVERTED 
CHURN. 

To-DAT — that  "  liberal  worldling,"  that  "  gay  philosopher" 
— is  here ;  and  last  night  belongs  to  us  only  in  so  far  as  it  de- 
serves a  place  in  our  memory  or  has  forced  itself  there  in  spite 
of  our  hatred  and  repugnance. 


108  MRS.  GEOFFREY. 

To  Rodney,  last  night  is  one  ever  to  be  remembered  as 
being  a  period  almost  without  end,  and  as  a  perfect  specimen 
of  how  seven  hours  can  be  made  to  feel  like  twenty-one. 

Thus  at  odd  moments  time  can  treble  itself;  but  with  the 
blessed  daylight  come  comfort  and  renewed  hope,  and  Geof- 
frey, greeting  with  rapture  the  happy  morn,  that, 

"Waked  by  the  circling  hours,  with  rosy  hand 
Unbars  the  gates  of  light," 

tells  himself  that  all  may  yet  be  right  betwixt  him  and  his 
love. 

His  love  at  this  moment — which  is  closing  upon  noon — is 
standing  in  her  cool  dairy  upon  business  thoughts  intent,  yet 
with  a  certain  look  of  expectation  and  anxiety  upon  her  face, 
— a  listening  look  may  best  express  it. 

To-morrow  will  be  market-day  in  Bantry,  to  which  the 
week's  butter  must  go ;  and  now  the  churning  is  over,  and 
the  result  of  it  lies  cold  and  rich  and  fresh  beneath  Mona's 
eyes.  She  herself  is  busily  engaged  printing  little  pats  off  a 
large  roll  of  butter  that  rests  on  the  slab  before  her ;  her 
sleeves  are  carefully  tucked  up,  as  on  that  first  day  when 
Geoffrey  saw  her ;  and  in  defiance  of  her  own  heart — which 
knows  itself  to  be  sad — she  is  lilting  some  little  foolish  lay, 
bright  and  shallow  as  the  October  sunshine  that  floods  tho 
room,  lying  in  small  silken  patches  on  the  walls  and  floor. 

In  the  distance  a  woman  is  bending  over  a  keeler  making  up 
a  huge  mass  of  butter  into  rolls,  nicely  squared  and  smoothed, 
to  make  them  look  their  best  and  handsomest  to-morrow. 

"  An'  a  nate  color  too,"  says  this  woman,  who  is  barefooted, 
beneath  her  breath,  regarding  with  admiration  the  yellow  tint 
of  the  object  on  which  she  is  engaged.  Two  pullets,  feathered 
like  a  partridge,  are  creeping  stealthily  into  the  dairy,  their 
heads  turned  knowingly  on  one  side,  their  steps  slow  and 
cautious ;  not  even  the  faintest  chirrup  escapes  them,  lest  it 
be  the  cause  of  their  instant  dismissal.  There  is  no  sound 
anywhere  but  the  soft  music  that  falls  from  Mona's  lips. 

Suddenly  a  bell  rings  in  the  distance.  This  is  the  signal 
for  the  men  to  cease  from  work  and  go  to  their  dinners.  It 
\nust  be  two  o'clock. 

Two  o'clock  1     The  song  dies  away,  and  Mona's  brows  con- 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  109 

tract.     So  late ! — the  day  is  slipping    from  her,  and  as  yet 
no  word,  no  sign. 

The  bell  stops,  and  a  loud  knock  at  the  hall-door  takes  its 
place.  Was  ever  sweeter  sound  heard  anywhere  ?  Mona  draws 
her  breath  quickly,  and  then,  as  though  ashamed  of  herself, 
goes  on  stoically  with  her  task.  Yet  for  all  her  stoicism  her 
color  comes  and  goes,  and  now  she  is  pale,  and  now  "  celestial, 
rosy  red,  love's  proper  hue,"  and  now  a  little  smile  comes  up 
and  irradiates  her  face. 

So  he  has  come  back  to  her  1  There  is  triumph  in  this 
thought  and  some  natural  vanity,  but  above  and  beyond  all  else 
a  great  relief  that  lifts  from  her  the  deadly  fear  that  all  night 
has  been  consuming  her  and  has  robbed  her  of  her  rest.  Now 
anxiety  is  at  an  end,  and  joy  reigns,  born  of  the  knowledge 
that  by  his  speedy  surrender  he  has  proved  himself  her  own 
indeed,  and  she  herself  indispensable  to  his  content. 

"  'Tis  the  English  gintleman,  miss, — Misther  Rodney.  He 
wants  to  see  ye,"  saj^s  the  fair  Bridget,  putting  her  head  in  at 
the  doorway,  and  speaking  in  a  hushed  and  subdued  tone. 

"  Very  well :  show  him  in  here,"  says  Mona,  very  dis- 
tinctly, going  on  with  the  printing  of  her  butter  with  a  cour- 
age that  deserves  credit.  There  is  acrimony  in  her  tone,  but 
laughter  in  her  eyes.  While  acknowledging  a  faint  soreness 
at  lier  heart,  she  is  still  amused  at  his  prompt,  and  therefore 
flattering,  subjection. 

Kodney,  standing  on  the  threshold  at  the  end  of  the  small 
hall,  can  hear  distinctly  all  that  passes. 

"  Here,  miss, — in  the  dairy  ?     Law,  Miss  Mona  I  don't." 

"  Why?"  demands  her  mistress,  somewhat  haughtily.  "  I 
suppose  even  the  English  gentleman,  as  you  call  him,  can  see 
butter  without  dying  I     Show  him  in  at  once." 

"  But  in  that  apron,  miss,  and  wid  yer  arms  bare-like,  an' 
widout  yer  purty  blue  bow ;  law,  Miss  Mona,  have  sinse,  an' 
don't  ye  now." 

"  Show  Mr.  Rodney  in  here,  Bridget,"  says  Mona,  unflinch- 
ingly, not  looking  at  the  distressed  maid,  or  indeed  at  any- 
thing but  the  unobservant  butter.  And  Bridget,  with  a  sigh 
that  strongly  resembles  the  snort  of  a  war-horse,  ushers  Mr. 
Rodney  into  the  dairy. 

"  You  ?"  says  Mona,  with  extreme  hauteur  and  an  unpleas- 
ant amount  of  well-feigned  astonishment.    She  does  not  deign 

10 


110  MRS.  GEOFFREY. 

to  go  to  meet  him,  or  even  to  turn  her  head  altogether  in  hia 
direction,  but  just  throws  a  swift  and  studiously  unfriendly 
glance  at  him  from  under  her  long  lashes. 

"  Yes,"  replies  he,  slowly,  as  though  regretful  that  he  can- 
not deny  his  own  identity, 

"  And  what  has  brought  you  ?"  demands  she,  not  rudely  or 
quickly,  but  as  though  desirous  of  obtaining  information  on  a 
subject  that  puzzles  her. 

"  An  overwhelming  desire  to  see  you  again,"  returns  this 
wise  young  man,  in  a  tone  that  is  absolutely  abject. 

To  this  it  is  difficult  to  make  a  telling  reply.  Mona  says 
nothing,  she  only  turns  her  head  completely  away  from  him, 
as  if  to  conceal  something.  Is  it  a  smile  ? — he  cannot  tell. 
And  indeed  presently,  as  though  to  dispel  all  such  idea,  she 
sighs  softly  but  audibly. 

At  this  Mr.  Rodney  moves  a  shade  closer  to  her. 

"  What  a  very  charming  dairy  I"  he  says,  mildly. 

*'  Very  uncomfortable  for  you,  I  fear,  after  your  long 
ride,"  says  Mona,  coldly  but  courteously.  "  Why  don't  you 
go  into  the  parlor  ?  I  am  sure  you  will  find  it  pleasanter 
there." 

"  I  am  sure  I  should  not,"  says  Rodney. 

"  More  comfortable,  at  least." 

"  I  am  quite  comfortable,  thank  you." 

"  But  you  have  nothing  to  sit  on." 

"  Neither  have  you." 

"  Oh,  I  have  my  work  to  do ;  and,  besides,  I  often  prefer 
standing." 

"  So  do  I,  often, — very  often,"  says  Mr.  Rodney,  sadly  still, 
but  genially. 

"Are  you  sure?" — with  cold  severity.  "It  is  only  two 
days  ago  since  you  told  me  you  loved  nothing  better  than  au 
easy-chair." 

"  Loved  nothing  better  than  a — oh,  how  you  must  have 
misunderstood  me  I"  says  Rodney,  with  mournful  earnestness, 
liberally  sprinkled  with  reproach. 

"  I  have  indeed  misunderstood  you  in  maiiy  ways."  This 
is  unkind,  and  the  emphasis  makes  it  even  more  so.  "  Norah, 
if  the  butter  is  finished,  you  can  go  and  feed  the  calves." 
There  is  a  business-like  air  about  her  whole  manner  eminently 
disheartenino;  to  a  lover  out  of  court. 


MRS.  OEOFFRET.  Ill 

"  Very  good,  miss ;  I'm  going,"  says  the  woman,  and  with 
a  last  touch  to  the  butter  she  covers  it  over  with  a  clean  wet 
cloth  and  moves  to  the  yard  door.  The  two  chickens  on  the 
threshold,  who  have  retreated  and  advanced  a  thousand  times, 
now  retire  finally  with  an  angry  "  cluck-cluck,"  and  once  more 
silence  reigns. 

"  We  were  talking  of  love,  I  think,"  says  Rodney,  inno- 
cently, as  though  the  tender  passion  as  subsisting  between  the 
opposite  sexes  had  been  the  subject  of  the  conversation. 

"Of  love  generally? — no,"  with  a  disdainful  glance, — 
"  merely  of  your  love  of  comfort." 

"  Yes,  quite  so :  that  is  exactly  what  I  meant,"  returns  he, 
agreeably.  It  was  nut  what  he  meant ;  but  that  doesn't  count. 
"  How  awfully  clever  you  are,"  he  says,  presently,  alluding  to 
her  management  of  the  little  pats,  wliich,  to  say  truth,  are 
faring  but  ill  at  her  hands. 

"  is'ot  clever,"  says  Mona.  "  If  I  were  clever  I  should  not 
take  for  granted — as  I  always  do — that  what  people  say  they 
must  mean.     I  myself  could  not  wear  a  double  face." 

"That  is  just  like  me,"  says  Mr.  Kodney,  unblushingly, — 
"  the  very  image  of  me." 

"  Is  it  ?" — witheringly.  Then,  with  some  impatience,  "  You 
will  be  far  happier  in  an  arm-chair:  do  go  into  the  parlor. 
There  is  really  no  reason  why  you  should  remain  here." 

"  There  is, — a  reason  not  to  be  surpassed.  And  as  to  the 
parlor," — in  a  melancholy  tone, — "  I  could  not  be  happy  there, 
or  anywhere,  just  at  present.  Unless,  indeed," — this  in  a  very 
low  but  carefully  distinct  tone, — "  it  be  here  1" 

A  pause.  Mona  mechanically  but  absently  goes  on  with  her 
work,  avoiding  all  interchange  of  glances  with  her  deceitful 
lover.  The  deceitful  lover  is  plainly  meditating  a  fresh  attack. 
Presently  he  overturns  an  empty  churn  and  seats  himself  on 
the  top  of  it  in  a  dejected  fashion. 

"  I  never  saw  the  easy-chair  I  could  compare  with  this,"  he 
Bays,  as  though  to  himself,  his  voice  full  of  truth. 

This  is  just  a  little  too  much.  Mona  gives  way.  Standing 
well  back  from  her  butter,  she  lets  her  pretty  rounded  bare 
arms  faJl  lightly  before  her  to  their  full  length,  and  as  her 
fingers  clasp  each  other  she  turns  to  Rodney  and  breaks  into 
a  peal  of  laughter  sweet  as  music. 

At  this  he  would  have  drawn  her  into  his  arms,  hoping  her 


112  MRS.  OEOFFREY. 

gayety  may  mean  forgiveness  and  free  absolution  for  all  things 
Baid  and  done  the  day  before ;  but  she  recoils  from  him. 

"  No,  no,"  she  says  ;  "  all  is  different  now,  you  know,  and 
you  should  never  have  come  here  again  at  all ;  but" — with 
charming  inconsequence — "  why  did  you  go  away  last  evening 
without  bidding  me  good-night  ?" 

"  My  heart  was  broken,  and  by  you  :  that  was  why.  How 
could  you  say  the  cruel  things  you  did  ?  To  tell  me  it  would 
be  better  for  me  to  cut  my  throat  than  marry  you  I  That  was 
abominable  of  you,  Mona,  wasn't  it  now  ?  And  to  make  me 
believe  you  meant  it  all,  too !"  says  this  astute  young  man. 

"  I  did  mean  that.  Of  course  I  cannot  marry  you,"  says 
Mona,  but  rather  weakly.  The  night  has  left  her  in  a  some- 
what wavering  frame  of  mind. 

"  If  you  can  say  that  again  now,  in  cold  blood,  after  so 
many  hours  of  thought,  you  must  be  indeed  heartless,"  says 
llodney  ;  "  and" — standing  up — "  I  may  as  well  go." 

He  moves  towards  the  door  with  "  pride  in  his  port,  defi- 
ance in  his  eye,"  as  Goldsmith  would  say. 

"  Well,  well,  wait  for  one  moment,"  says  Mona,  showing  the 
white  feather  at  last,  and  holding  out  to  him  one  slim  little 
hand.  He  seizes  it  with  avidity,  and  then,  placing  his  arm 
round  her  waist  with  audacious  boldness,  gives  her  an  honest 
kiss,  which  she  returns  with  equal  honesty. 

"  Now  let  us  talk  no  more  nonsense,"  says  Rodney,  tenderly. 
"  "We  belong  to  each  other,  and  always  shall,  and  that  is  the 
solution  of  the  whole  matter." 

"  Is  it  ?"  says  she,  a  little  wistfully.  "  You  think  so  now  ; 
but  if  afterwards  you  should  know  regret,  or " 

"Oh,  if — if — ifl"  interrupts  he.  "Is  it  that  you  are 
afraid  for  yourself?  Remember  there  is  '  beggary  in  the  love 
that  can  be  reckoned.'  " 

"  That  is  true,"  says  Mona ;  "  but  it  does  not  apply  to  me  , 
and  it  is  for  you  only  I  fear.  Let  me  say  just  this:  I  have 
thought  it  all  over ;  there  were  many  hours  in  which  to  think, 
because  I  could  not  sleep " 

"  Neither  could  I,"  puts  in  Geoffrey.  "  But  it  was  hard 
on  you,  my  darling." 

'•  And  this  is  what  I  would  say ;  in  one  year  from  this  I 
will  marry  you,  if" — with  a  faint  tremble  in  her  tone — "  you 
then  still  cure  to  marry  me.     But  not  before." 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  113 

"  A  year !     An  eternity  !" 

"  No  ;  only  twelve  months," — hastily  ;  "  say  no  more  now  : 
my  mind  is  quite  made  up." 

"  Last  week,  Mona,  you  gave  me  your  promise  to  marry  me 
before  Christmas  ;  can  you  break  it  now  ?  Do  you  know  what 
an  old  writer  says  ?  '  Thou  oughtest  to  be  nice  even  to  super- 
stition in  keeping  thy  promises ;  and  therefore  thou  shouldst 
be  equally  cautious  in  making  them.'  Now,  you  have  made 
yours  in  all  good  faith,  how  can  you  break  it  again  ?" 

"  Ah  !  then  I  did  not  know  all,"  says  Mona.  "  That  was 
your  fault.  No  ;  if  I  consent  to  do  you  this  injury  you  shall 
at  least  have  time  to  think  it  over." 

"  Do  you  distrust  me  ?"  says  Rodney, — this  time  really  hurt, 
because  his  love  for  her  is  in  reality  deep  and  strong  and 
thorough. 

"  No," — slowly, — "  I  do  not.  If  I  did,  I  should  not  love 
you  as — as  I  do." 

"  It  is  all  very  absurd,"  says  Rodney,  impatiently.  "  If  a 
year,  or  two,  or  twenty,  were  to  go  by,  it  would  be  all  the  same  ; 
I  should  love  you  then  as  I  love  you  to-day,  and  no  other 
woman.     Be  reasonable,  darling ;  give  up  this  absurd  idea." 

"  Impossible,"  says  Mona. 

"  '  Impossible  is  a  word  only  to  be  found  in  the  dictionary  of 
fools.'  You  are  not  a  fool.  This  is  a  mere  fad  of  yours,  and  I 
think  you  hardly  know  why  you  are  insisting  on  it." 

"  I  do  know,"  says  Mona.  "  First,  because  I  would  have 
you  weigh  everything  carefully,  and " 

"  Yes,  and " 

"  You  know  your  mother  will  object  to  me,"  says  Mona, 
with  an  effort,  speaking  hurriedly,  whilst  a  little  fleck  of  scarlet 
flames  into  her  cheeks. 

"  Stuff"!"  says  Mr.  Rodney :  "  that  is  only  piling  Ossa  upon 
Pelion  :  it  will  bring  you  no  nearer  the  clouds.  Say  you  will 
go  back  to  the  old  arrangement  and  marry  me  next  morth,  or 
at  least  the  month  after." 

"  No." 

She  stands  away  from  him,  and  looks  at  him  with  a  face  so 
pale,  yet  so  earnest  and  intense,  that  he  feels  it  will  be  unwise 
to  argue  further  with  her  just  now.  So  instead  he  takes  both 
her  hands  and  draws  her  to  his  side  again. 

"  Oh,  Mona,  if  you  could  only  know  how  wretched  I  was 
h  10* 


114  MRS.  GEOFFREY. 

all  last  night,"  he  says ;  "  I  never  put  in  such  a  bad  time  in 
my  life." 

"  yes ;  I  can  understand  you,"  said  Mona,  softly,  "  for  I 
too  was  miserable." 

"  Do  you  recollect  all  you  said,  or  one-half  of  it  ?  You 
said  it  would  be  well  if  I  hated  you." 

"  That  was  very  nasty  of  me,"  confesses  Mona.  "  Yet,'* 
with  a  sigh,  "  perhaps  I  was  right." 

"  Now,  that  is  nastier,"  says  Geoffrey ;  "  unsay  it." 

"  I  will,"  says  the  girl,  impulsively,  with  quick  tears  in  her 
eyes.  "  Don't  hate  me,  my  dearest,  unless  you  wish  to  kill 
me ;  for  that  would  be  the  end  of  it." 

"  I  have  a  great  mind  to  say  something  uncivil  to  you,  if 
only  to  punish  you  for  your  coldness,"  says  Geoffrey,  lightly, 
cheered  by  her  evident  sincerity.  "  But  I  shall  refrain,  lest  a 
second  quarrel  be  the  result,  and  I  have  endured  so  much 
during  these  past  few  hours  that 

'  As  I  am  a  Christian  faithful  man, 
I  would  not  spend  another  such  a  night 
Though  'twere  to  buy  a  world  of  happy  days.' 

From  the  hour  I  parted  from  you  till  I  saw  you  again  I  felt 
downright  suicidal." 

"  But  you  didn't  cut  your  throat,  after  all,"  says  Mona, 
with  a  wicked  little  grimace. 

"  Well,  no ;  but  I  dare  say  I  shall  before  I  am  done  with 
you.  Besides,  it  occurred  to  me  I  might  as  well  have  a  last 
look  at  you  before  consigning  my  body  to  the  grave." 

"  And  an  unhallowed  grave,  too.  And  so  yuu  really  felt 
miserable  when  angry  with  me  ?  How  do  you  feel  now  ?" 
She  is  looking  up  at  him,  with  love  and  content  and  an  ador- 
able touch  of  coquetry  in  her  pretty  face. 

" '  I  feel  that  I  am  happier  than  I  know,' "  quotes  he, 
Boflly,  folding  her  closely  to  his  heart. 

So  peace  is  restored,  and  presently,  forsaking  the  pats  of 
butter  and  the  dairy,  they  wander  forth  into  the  open  air,  to 
eatch  the  last  mild  breezes  that  belong  to  the  dying  day. 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  11& 


CHAPTER  XII. 

HOW  OEOFFEEY  TELLS  HOME  SECRETS,  AND  HOW  MONA 
COMMENTS  THEREON — HOW  DEATH  STALKS  RAMPANT 
IN  THEIR  PATH — AND  HOW,  THOUGH  GEOFFREY  DE- 
CLINES TO  "RUN  AWAY,"  HE  STILL  "LIVES  TO  FIGHT 
ANOTHER   DAY." 

"  And  you  really  mustn't  think  us  such  very  big  people," 
Bays  GeoflFrey,  in  a  deprecating  tone,  "  because  we  are  any- 
thing but  that,  and,  in  fact," — with  a  sharp  contraction  of 
the  brow  that  betokens  inward  grief, — "  there  is  rather  a 
cloud  over  us  just  now." 

"  A  cloud  ?"  says  Mona.  And  I  think  in  her  inmost  heart 
she  is  rather  glad  than  otherwise  that  her  lover's  people  are 
not  on  the  top  rung  of  the  ladder. 

"  Yes, — in  a  regular  hole,  you  know,"  says  Mr.  Rodney. 
"  It  is  rather  a  complicated  story,  but  the  truth  is,  my  grand- 
father hated  his  eldest  son — my  uncle  who  went  to  Australia 
— like  poison,  and  when  dying  left  all  the  property — none  of 
which  was  entailed — to  his  second  son,  my  father." 

"  That  was  a  little  unfair,  wasn't  it?"  says  Mona.  "  Why 
didn't  he  divide  it  ?" 

"  Well,  that's  just  it,"  returns  he.  "  But,  you  see,  he 
didn't.  He  willed  the  whole  thing  to  my  father.  He  had  a 
long  conversation  with  my  mother  the  very  night  before  his 
death,  in  which  he  mentioned  this  will,  and  where  it  was 
locked  up,  and  all  about  it ;  yet  the  curious  part  of  the  whole 
matter  is  this,  that  on  the  morning  after  his  death,  when  they 
made  search  for  this  will,  it  was  nowhere  to  be  found  I  Nor 
have  we  lieard  tale  or  tidings  of  it  ever  since.  Though  of 
the  fact  that  it  was  duly  signed,  sealed,  and  delivered  there  is 
no  doubt." 

"  How  strange  1"  says  Mona.  "  But  how  then  did  you 
manage?" 

"  Well,  just  then  it  made  little  difference  to  us,  as,  shortly 
afler  my  grandfather  went  off  the  hooks,  we  received  what 
we  believed  to  be  authenticated  tidings  of  my  uncle's  death." 


il6  MRS.  GEOFFREY. 

"  Yes  ?"  says  Mona,  who  looks,  and  is,  intensely  interested. 

"  Well,  belief,  however  strong,  goes  a  short  way  sometimes. 
An  uncommon  short  way  with  us." 

"  But  your  uncle's  death  made  it  all  right,  didn't  it  ?" 

*'  No,  it  didn't :  it  made  it  all  wrong.  But  for  that  lie 
we  should  not  be  in  the  predicament  in  which  we  now  find 
ourselves.  You  will  understand  me  better  when  I  tell  you 
that  the  other  day  a  young  man  turned  up  who  declares  him- 
self to  be  my  uncle  George's  son,  and  heir  to  his  land  and 
title.  That  was  a  blow.  And,  as  this  wretched  will  is  not 
forthcoming,  I  fear  he  will  inherit  everything.  We  are  dis- 
puting it,  of  course,  and  are  looking  high  and  low  for  the 
missing  will  that  should  have  been  sought  for  at  the  first. 
But  it's  very  shaky  the  whole  affair." 

"  It  is  terrible,"  says  Mona,  with  such  exceeding  earnest- 
ness that  he  could  have  hugged  her  on  the  spot. 

"  It  is  very  hard  on  Nick,"  he  says,  disconsolately. 

"  And  he  is  your  cousin,  this  strange  young  man  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  so,"  replies  Mr.  Rodney,  reluctantly. 
"  But  he  don't  look  like  it.  Hang  it,  you  know,"  exclaims 
be,  vehemently,  "  one  can  stand  a  good  deal,  but  to  have  a 
fellow  who  wears  carbuncle  rings,  and  speaks  of  his  mother  as 
the  '  old  girl,'  call  himself  your  cousin,  is  more  than  flesh  and 
blood  can  put  up  with :  it's — it's  worse  than  the  law-suit." 

"  It  is  very  hard  on  Sir  Nicholas,"  says  Mona,  who  would 
not  call  him  "  Nick"  now  for  the  world. 

"  Harder  even  than  you  know.  He  is  engaged  to  one  of 
the  dearest  little  girls  possible,  but  of  course  if  this  affair  ter- 
minates in  favor  of — "  he  hesitates  palpably,  then  says,  with 
an  effort — "  my  cousin,  the  engagement  comes  to  an  end." 

"  But  why?"  says  Mona. 

*'  Well,  he  won't  be  exactly  a  catch  after  that,  you  know," 
says  Rodney,  sadly.  "  Poor  old  Nick  !  it  will  be  a  come-down 
for  him  after  all  these  years." 

*'  But  do  you  mean  to  tell  me  the  girl  he  loves  will  give  him 
up  just  because  fortune  is  frowning  on  him  ?"  asks  Mona, 
slowly.     "  Sure  she  couldn't  be  so  mean  as  that." 

"  It  won't  be  her  fault ;  but  of  course  her  people  will  ob- 
ject, which  amounts  to  the  same  thing.  She  can't  go  against 
her  people,  you  know." 

"  I  don't  know,"  says  Mona,  unconvinced.     "  I  would  go 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  117 

against  all  the  people  in  the  world  rather  than  be  bad  to  you, 
And  to  forsake  him,  too,  at  the  very  time  when  he  will  most 
want  sympathy,  at  the  very  hour  of  his  great  trouble.  Oh  1 
that  is  shameful !     1  shall  not  like  her,  I  think." 

"  I  am  sure  you  will,  notwithstanding.  She  is  the  gayest, 
brightest  creature  imaginable,  just  such  another  as  yourself. 
If  it  be  true  that  '  birds  of  a  feather  flock  together,"  you  and 
she  must  amalgamate.  You  may  not  get  on  well  with  Violet 
Mansergh,  who  is  somewhat  reserved,  but  I  know  you  will  be 
quite  friends  with  Doatie." 

"  What  is  her  name?" 

"  She  is  Lord  Steyne's  second  daughter.  The  family  name 
is  Darling.     Her  name  is  Dorothy." 

"  A  pretty  name,  too." 

*'  Yes,  old-fashioned.  She  is  always  called  Doatie  Darling 
by  her  fuTuiliars,  which  sounds  funny.  She  is  quite  charming, 
and  loved  by  every  one." 

"  Yet  she  would  renounce  her  love,  would  betray  him  for 
the  sake  of  filthy  lucre,"  says  Mona,  gravely.  "  1  cannot  un- 
derstand that." 

"  It  is  the  way  of  her  world.  There  is  more  in  training 
than  one  quite  knows.  Now,  you  are  altogether  different.  I 
know  that ;  it  is  perhaps  the  reason  why  you  have  made  my 
heart  your  own.  Do  not  think  it  flattery  when  I  tell  you 
there  are  very  few  like  you,  Mona,  in  the  world  ;  but  I  would 
have  you  be  generous.  Do  not  let  your  excellence  make  you 
harsh  to  others.  That  is  a  common  fault ;  and  all  people, 
darling,  are  not  charactered  alike." 

"  Am  I  harsh  ?"  says  Mona,  wistfully. 

"  No,  you  are  not,"  says  Geoffrey,  grieved  to  the  heart  that 
he  could  have  used  such  a  word  towards  her.  "  You  are 
nothing  that  is  not  sweet  and  adorable.  And,  besides  all 
this,  you  are,  I  know,  sincerity  itself.  I  feel  (and  am  thank- 
ful for  the  knowledge)  that  were  fate  to  '  steep  me  in  poverty 
to  the  very  lips,'  you  would  still  be  faithful  to  me." 

"  I  should  be  all  the  more  faithful :  it  is  then  you  would 
feel  your  need  of  me,"  says  Mona,  simply.  Then,  as  though 
puzzled,  she  goes  on  with  a  little  sigh,  "  In  time,  perhaps,  I 
shall  understand  it  all,  and  how  other  people  feel,  and — if  it 
will  please  you,  Geoffrey — I  shall  try  to  like  the  girl  you  call 
Doatie." 


118  MRS.  OEOFFRET. 

"  I  wish  Nick  didn't  like  her  so  much,"  says  GeoiFrey,  sadly. 
"  It  will  cut  him  up  more  than  all  the  rest,  if  he  has  to  give 
her  up." 

"  Geoffrey,"  says  Mona,  in  a  low  tone,  slipping  her  hand 
into  his  in  a  half-shamed  fashion,  "  I  have  five  hundred 
pounds  of  my  own :  would  it — would  it  be  of  any  use  to  Sir 
Nicholas  ?" 

Rodney  is  deeply  touched. 

"  No,  darling,  no ;  I  am  afraid  not,"  he  says,  very  gently. 
But  for  the  poor  child's  tender  earnestness  and  good  faith,  he 
could  almost  have  felt  some  faint  amusement ;  but  this  offer- 
ing of  hers  is  to  him  a  sacred  thing,  and  to  treat  her  words  as 
a  jest  is  a  thought  far  from  him.  Indeed,  to  give  wilful  offence 
to  any  one,  by  either  word  or  action,  would  be  very  foreign  to 
his  nature.  For  if  "  he  is  gentil  that  doth  gentil  dedis"  be 
true,  Rodney  to  his  finger-tips  is  gentleman  indeed. 

It  is  growing  dusk  ;  "  the  shades  of  night  are  falling  fast," 
the  cold  pale  sun,  that  all  day  long  has  cast  its  chill  October 
beams  upon  a  leafless  world,  has  now  sunk  behind  the  distant 
hill,  and  the  sad  silence  of  the  coming  night  "  hath  set  her 
finger  with  deep  touch  upon  creation's  brow." 

"Do  you  know,"  says  Mona,  with  a  slight  shiver,  and  a 
little  nervous  laugh,  pressing  closer  to  his  side,  "  I  have  lost 
lialf  my  courage  of  late  ?  I  seem  to  be  always  anticipating 
evil." 

Down  from  the  mountain's  top  the  shadows  are  creeping 
Btealthily :  all  around  is  growing  dim,  and  vague,  and  myste- 
rious, in  the  uncertain  light. 

"  Perhaps  I  feel  nervous  because  of  all  the  unhappy  things 
one  hears  daily,"  goes  on  Mona,  in  a  subdued  voice.  "  That 
murder  at  Oola,  for  instance :  that  was  horrible." 

"  Well,  but  a  murder  at  Oola  isn't  a  murder  here,  you 
know,"  says  Mr.  Rodney,  airily.  "  Let  us  wait  to  be  melan- 
choly until  it  comes  home  to  ourselves, — which,  indeed,  may 
be  at  any  moment,  youi  countrymen  are  of  such  a  very  playful 
disposition.  Do  you  remember  what  a  lively  time  we  had  of  it 
the  night  we  ran  to  Maxwell's  assistance,  and  what  an  escape 
he  had?" 

"  Ay  1  so  he  had, — an  escape  you  will  never  know,"  says  a 
hoarse  voice  at  this  moment,  that  makes  Mona's  heart  almost 
cease  to  beat.     An  instant  later,  and  two  men  jump  up  from 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  119 

the  dark  ditch  in  which  they  have  been  evidently  hiding,  and 
confront  Rodney  with  a  look  of  savage  satisfaction  upon  their 
faces. 

At  the  first  glance  he  recognizes  them  as  being  the  two  men 
with  whom  Mona  had  attempted  argument  and  remonstrance 
on  the  night  elected  for  Maxwell's  murder.  They  are  armed 
with  guns,  but  wear  no  disguise,  not  even  the  usual  band  of 
black  crape  across  the  upper  half  of  the  face. 

Rodney  casts  a  quick  glance  up  the  road,  but  no  human 
creature  is  in  sight ;  nor,  indeed,  were  they  here,  would  they 
have  been  of  any  use.  For  who  in  these  lawless  days  would 
dare  defy  or  call  in  question  any  act  of  the  all-powerful  Land 
League  ? 

"You,  Ryan  ?"  says  Mona,  with  an  attempt  at  unconcern, 
but  her  tone  is  absolutely  frozen  with  fear. 

"  You  see  me,"  says  the  man,  sullenly  ;  "  an'  ye  may  guess 
my  errand."  He  fingers  the  trigger  of  his  gun  in  a  terribly 
significant  manner  as  he  speaks. 

"  I  do  guess  it,"  she  answers,  slowly.  "  Well,  kill  us 
both,  if  it  must  be  so."  She  lays  her  arms  round  Rodney's 
neck  as  she  speaks,  even  before  he  can  imagine  her  meaning, 
and  hides  her  face  on  his  breast. 

"  Stand  back,"  says  Ryan,  savagely.  "  Stand  back,  I  tell 
ye,  unless  ye  want  a  hole  in  yer  own  skin,  for  his  last  moment 
is  come." 

"  Let  me  go,  Mona,"  says  Geofifrey,  forcing  her  arms  from 
round  him  and  almost  flinging  her  to  one  side.  It  is  the  first 
and  last  time  he  ever  treats  a  woman  with  roughness. 

"  Ha  !  That's  right,"  says  Ryan.  "  You  hold  her,  Carthy, 
while  I  give  this  English  gentleman  a  lesson  that  will  carry 
him  to  the  other  world.  I'll  teach  him  how  to  balk  me  of 
my  prey  a  second  time.  D'ye  think  I  didn't  know  about 
Maxwell,  eh?  an'  that  my  life  is  in  yer  keepin' !  But  yours 
is  in  mine  now,"  with  a  villainous  leer,  "  an'  I  wouldn't  give 
a  thraneen  for  it." 

Carthy,  having  caught  Mona's  arms  from  behind  just  a 
little  above  the  elbow,  holds  her  as  in  a  vice.  There  is  no 
escape,  no  hope  I  Finding  herself  powerless,  she  makes  no 
further  efl'ort  for  freedom,  but  with  dilated  eyes  and  parted, 
bloodless  lips,  through  which  her  breath  comes  in  quick  agon- 
ized gasps,  waits  to  see  her  lover  murdered  almost  at  her  feet. 


120  MRS.  GEOFFREY. 

"  Now  say  a  short  prayer,"  says  Ryan,  levelling  his  gun ; 
"  for  yer  last  hour  has  come." 

"  Has  it  ?"  says  Rodney,  fiercely.  "  Then  I'll  make  the 
most  of  it,"  and  before  the  other  can  find  time  to  fire  he 
flings  himself  upon  him,  and  grasps  his  throat  with  murderous 
force. 

In  an  instant  they  are  locked  in  each  other's  arms.  Ryan 
wrestles  violently,  but  is  scarcely  a  match  for  Rodney,  whose 
youth  and  training  tell,  and  who  is  actually  fighting  for  dear 
life.  In  the  confusion  the  gun  goes  oif,  and  the  bullet,  pass- 
ing by  Rodney's  arm,  tears  away  a  piece  of  the  coat  with  it, 
and  also  part  of  the  flesh.  But  this  he  hardly  knows  till 
later  on. 

To  and  fro  they  sway,  and  then  both  men  fall  heavily  to 
the  ground.  Presently  they  are  on  their  feet  again,  but  this 
time  Rodney  is  master  of  the  unloaded  gun. 

"  Leave  the  girl  alone,  and  come  here,"  shouts  Ryan 
furiously  to  Carthy,  who  is  still  holding  Mona  captive.  The 
blood  is  streaming  from  a  large  cut  on  his  forehead  received 
in  his  fall. 

"  Coward  !"  hisses  Rodney  between  his  teeth.  His  face  is 
pale  as  death  ;  his  teeth  are  clenched  ;  his  gray  eyes  are  flaming 
fire.  His  hat  has  fallen  ofi"  in  the  struggle,  and  his  coat, 
which  is  a  good  deal  torn,  betrays  a  shirt  beneath  deeply 
stained  with  blood.  He  is  standing  back  a  little  from  his  op- 
ponent, with  his  head  thrown  up,  and  his  fair  hair  lying  well 
back  from  his  brow. 

"  Come  on,"  he  says,  with  a  low  furious  laugh,  that  has  no 
mirth  in  it,  but  is  full  of  reckless  defiance.  "  But  first,"  to 
Ryan,  "  I'll  square  accounts  with  you." 

Advancing  with  the  empty  gun  in  his  hands,  he  raises  it, 
and,  holding  it  by  the  barrel,  brings  it  down  with  all  his  might 
upon  his  enemy's  skull.  Ryan  reels,  staggers,  and  once  more 
licks  the  dust.  But  the  wretched  weapon — sold  probably  at 
the  back  of  some  miserable  shebeen  in  Bantry  for  any  price 
ranging  from  five-and-six  to  one  guinea — snaps  in  two  at  this 
moment  from  the  force  of  the  blow,  so  leaving  Rodney,  spent 
and  weak  with  loss  of  blood,  at  the  mercy  of  his  second  op- 
ponent. 

Carthy,  having  by  this  time  freed  himself  from  Mona's  de- 
taining grasp, — who,  seeing  the  turn  afi'airs  have  taken,  has 


MRS.  OEOFFRET.  121 

clung  to  him  with  all  her  strenc^th,  and  so  hampered  his  efforts 
to  go  to  his  companion's  assistance, — comes  to  the  front. 

But  a  hand-to-hand  encounter  is  not  Mr.  Carthy's  forte. 
He  prefers  being  propped  up  by  friends  and  acquaintances, 
and  thinks  a  duel  h  la  mart  a  poor  speculation.  Now,  seeing 
liis  whilom  accomplice  stretched  apparently  lifeless  upon  tho 
ground,  his  courage  (what  he  has  of  it),  like  Bob  Acres', 
oozes  out  through  his  palms,  and  a  curious  shaking,  that 
surely  can't  be  fear,  takes  possession  of  his  knees. 

Moreover,  he  has  never  before  had  a  gun  in  his  own  keep- 
ing ;  and  the  sensation,  though  novel,  is  not  so  enchanting  as 
he  had  fondly  hoped  it  might  have  been.  He  is  plainly  shy 
about  the  managing  of  it,  and  in  his  heart  is  not  quite  sure 
which  end  of  it  goes  off.  However,  he  lifts  it  with  trembling 
fingers,  and  deliberately  covers  Eodney. 

Tyro  as  he  is,  standing  at  so  short  a  distance  from  his  an- 
tagonist, he  could  have  hardly  failed  to  blow  him  into  bits, 
and  probably  would  have  done  so,  but  for  one  little  incident. 

Mona,  whose  Irish  blood  by  this  time  is  at  its  hottest,  on 
finding  herself  powerless  to  restrain  the  movements  of  Carthy 
any  longer,  had  rushed  to  the  wall  near,  and,  made  strong  by 
love  and  excitement,  had  torn  from  its  top  a  heavy  stone. 

Now,  turning  back,  she  aims  carefully  for  Carthy's  head, 
and  flings  the  missile  from  her.  A  woman's  eye  in  such  cases  is 
seldom  sure,  and  now  the  stone  meant  for  his  head  falls  short, 
and,  hitting  his  arm,  knocks  the  gun  from  his  nerveless  fingers. 

This  brings  the  skirmish  to  an  end.  Carthy,  seeing  all  is 
lost,  caves  in,  and,  regardless  of  the  prostrate  figure  of  his 
companion,  jumps  hurriedly  over  the  low  wall,  and  disappears 
in  the  night-mist  that  is  rolling  up  from  the  bay. 

Rodney,  lifting  the  gun,  takes  as  sure  aim  as  he  can  at  the 
form  of  the  departing  hero ;  but  evidently  the  bullet  misses 
its  mark,  as  no  sound  of  fear  or  pain  comes  to  disturb  the 
utter  silence  of  the  evening. 

Then  he  turns  to  Mona. 

"  You  have  saved  my  life,"  he  says,  in  a  tone  that  trem 
bles  for  the  first  time  this  evening,  "  my  love  !  my  brave  girl ! 
But  what  an  ordeal  for  you  !" 

"  I  felt  nothing,  nothing,  but  the  one  thing  that  I  was 
powerless  to  help  you,"  says  Mona,  passionately;  "that  was 
bitter." 

»  11 


122  MRS.  GEOFFREY. 

"  What  spirit,  what  courage,  you  displayed  !  At  first  I 
feared  you  would  faint " 

"  While  you  still  lived  ?  While  I  might  be  of  some  use  to 
you?  No!"  says  Mona,  her  eyes  gleaming.  "To  myself  I 
said,  there  will  be  time  enough  for  that  later  on."  Then,  with 
a  little  dry  sob,  "  There  will  be  time  to  die  later  on." 

Here  lier  eyes  fall  upon  llyau's  motionless  figure,  and  a 
ehudder  passes  over  her. 

"  Is  he  dead  ?"  she  asks,  in  a  whisper,  pointing  without 
looking  at  their  late  foe.  Rodney,  stooping,  lays  his  hand  on 
the  ruffian's  heart. 

"  No,  he  breathes,"  he  says.  "  He  will  live,  no  doubt. 
Vermin  are  hard  to  kill.  And  if  he  docs  die,"  bitterly,  "  what 
matter  ?  Dog  !  Let  him  lie  there  I  The  road  is  too  good  a 
place  for  him." 

"  Come  home,"  says  Mona,  faintly.  Now  the  actual  danger 
is  past,  terror  creeps  over  her,  rendering  her  a  prey  to  imag- 
inary sights  and  sounds.  "  There  may  be  others.  Do  not 
delay." 

In  ignorance  of  the  fact  that  Geofirey  has  been  hurt  in  the 
fray,  she  lays  her  hand  upon  the  injured  arm.  Instinctively 
he  shrinks  from  the  touch. 

"  What  is  it?"  she  says,  fearfully,  and  then,  "  Your  coat  is 
wet — I  feel  it.  Oh,  Geoffrey,  look  at  your  shirt.  It  is 
blood  I"  Her  tone  is  full  of  horror.  "  What  have  they  done 
to  you  ?"  she  says,  pitifully.     "  You  are  hurt,  wounded  !" 

"  It  can't  be  much,"  says  Geoffrey,  who,  to  confess  the  truth, 
is  by  this  time  feeling  a  little  sick  and  faint.  "  I  never  knew 
I  was  touched  till  now.     Come,  let  us  get  back  to  the  farm." 

"  I  wonder  you  do  not  hate  me,"  says  Mona,  with  a  broken- 
hearted sob,  "  when  you  remember  I  am  of  the  same  blood  as 
these  wretches." 

"  Hate  you  !"  replies  he,  with  a  smile  of  ineffable  fondness, 
"  my  preserver  and  my  love  I" 

She  is  comforted  in  a  small  degree  by  his  words,  but  fear 
and  depression  still  hold  her  captive.  She  insists  upon  his 
leaning  on  her,  and  he,  seeing  she  is  bent  on  being  of  some 
eervice  to  him,  lays  his  hand  lightly  on  her  shoulder,  and  so 
they  go  slowly  homeward. 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  123 


CHAPTER  XIII. 


HOW  MONA  PROVES  HERSELF  EQUAL — IP  NOT  SUPERIOR 
— TO  DR.  MARY  WALKER;  AND  HOAV  GEOFFREY,  BY  A 
BASE   THREAT,   CARRIES    HIS    POINT. 

Old  Brian  Scully  is  in  his  parlor,  and  comes  to  meet  them 
as  they  enter  the  hall, — his  pipe  behind  his  back. 

"  Come  in,  come  in,"  he  begins,  cheerily,  and  then,  catch- 
ing sight  of  Mona's  pale  ftice,  stops  short.  "  Why,  what  has 
come  to  ye?"  cries  he,  aghast,  glancing  from  his  niece  to 
Rodney's  discolored  shirt  and  torn  coat;  "what  has  hap- 
pened ?" 

"  It  was  Tim  Ryan,"  returns  Mona,  wearily,  feeling  unequal 
to  a  long  story  just  at  present. 

"  P]h,  but  this  is  bad  news !"  says  old  Scully,  evidently 
terrified  and  disheartened  by  his  niece's  words.  "  Where  will 
it  all  end?  Come  in,  Misther  Rodney:  let  me  look  at  ye, 
boy.  No,  not  a  word  out  of  ye  now  till  ye  taste  something. 
'Tis  in  bits  ye  are ;  an'  a  good  coat  it  was  this  mornin'. 
There's  the  whiskey,  Mona,  agra,  an'  there's  the  wather.  Oh  1 
the  black  villain  !  Let  me  examine  ye,  me  son.  Why,  there's 
blood  on  ye  I     Oh  !  the  murthering  thief!" 

So  runs  on  the  kindly  farmer,  smitten  to  the  heart  that  such 
things  should  be, — and  done  upon  Rodney  of  all  men.  He 
walks  round  the  young  man,  muttering  his  indignation  in  a 
low  tone,  while  helping  him  with  gentle  care  to  remove  his 
coat, — or  at  least  what  remains  of  that  once  goodly  garment 
that  had  for  parent  Mr.  Poole. 

"  Where's  the  docther  at  all,  at  all  ?"  says  he,  forcing  Geof- 
frey into  a  chair,  and  turning  to  Biddy,  who  is  standing  open- 
mouthed  in  the  doorway,  and  who,  though  grieved,  is  plainly 
finding  some  pleasure  in  the  situation.  Being  investigated, 
she  informs  them  the  "  docther"  is  to-night  on  the  top  of 
Carrigfoddha  Mountain,  and,  literally,  "  won't  be  home  until 
morning." 

"  Now,  what's  to  be  done  ?"  says  old  Brian,  in  despair. 
"  I  know,  as  well  as  if  ye  tould  me,  it  is  Norry  Flannigan  I 


124  MRS.  GEOFFREY. 

Just  like  those  wimmen  to  be  always  troublesome  I     Are  yo 
sure,  Biddy?" 

"  Troth  I  am,  sir.  I  see  him  goin'  wid  me  own  two  eyes 
not  an  hour  ago,  in  the  gig  an'  the  white  horse,  wid  the  wan 
eye  an'  the  loose  tail, — that  looks  for  all  the  world  as  if  it  was 
screwed  on  to  him.  An'  'tisn't  Norry  is  callin'  for  him  nayther 
(though  I  don't  say  but  she'll  be  on  the  way),  but  Larry 
Moloney  the  sweep.  'Tis  a  stitch  he  got  this  mornin,'  an'  he'a 
gone  intirely  this  time,  the  people  say.  An'  more's  the  pity 
f<io,  for  a  dacent  sowl  he  was,  an'  more  nor  a  inortial  sweep." 

This  eulogy  on  the  departing  Larry  she  delivers  with  much 
unction,  and  a  good  deal  of  check  apron  in  the  corner  of  one  eye. 

"  Nevermind  Larry,"  says  the  farmer,  impatiently.  "  This 
is  the  seventh  time  he  has  died  this  year.  But  think  of 
Misther  Rodney  here.     Can't  ye  do  something  for  him?" 

"  Sure  Miss  Mona  can,"  says  Biddy,  turning  to  her  young 
mistress,  and  standing  in  the  doorway  in  her  favorite  position, 

that  is,  with  her  bare  arms  akimbo,  and  her  head  to  one 

side  like  a  magpie.     "  She's  raal  clever  at  dhressin'  an'  do'^ 
therin'  an'  that." 

"  Oh,  no,  I'm  not  clever,"  says  Mona ;  "  but" — nervously 
and  with  downcast  eyes,  addressing  Geoffrey — "  I  might  per- 
haps be  able  to  make  you  a  little  more  comfortable." 

A  strange  feeling  of  shyness  is  weighing  upon  her.  Her 
stalwart  English  lover  is  standing  close  beside  her,  having 
risen  from  his  chair  with  his  eyes  on  hers,  and  in  his  shirt- 
sleeves looking  more  than  usually  handsome  because  of  his 
pallor,  and  because  of  the  dark  circles  that,  lying  beneath  his 
eyes,  throw  out  their  color,  making  them  darker,  deeper,  than 
is  their  nature.  How  shall  she  bare  the  arm  of  this  young 
Adonis? — how  help  to  heal  his  wound?  Oh,  Larry  Mo- 
loney, what  hast  thou  not  got  to  answer  for  I 

She  shrinks  a  little  from  the  task,  and  would  fain  have 
evaded  it  altogether ;  though  there  is  happiness,  too,  in  the 
thought  that  here  is  an  occasion  on  which  she  may  be  of  real 
use  to  him.  Will  not  the  very  act  itself  bring  her  nearer  to 
him  ?  Is  it  not  sweet  to  feel  that  it  is  in  her  power  to  ease  his 
pain  ?  And  is  she  not  only  doing  what  a  tender  wife  would 
gladly  do  for  her  husband  ? 

Still  she  hesitates,  though  betraying  no  vulgar  awkward- 
ness or  silly  mauvaise  hoiite.     Indeed,  the  only  sign  of  emo 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  125 

tion  she  does  show  is  a  soft  slow  blush,  that,  mounting  quickly, 
tips  even  her  little  ears  with  pink. 

"  Let  her  thry,"  says  old  Brian,  in  his  soft,  Irish  brogue, 
that  comes  kindly  from  his  tongue.  "  She's  mighty  clever 
about  most  things." 

"  I  hardly  like  to  ask  her  to  do  it,"  says  the  young  man, 
divided  between  an  overpowering  desire  to  be  made  "  comfort- 
able," as  she  has  expressed  it,  and  a  chivalrous  fear  that  the 
sight  of  the  nasty  though  harmless  flesh-wound  will  cause  her 
some  distress.  "  Perhaps  it  will  make  you  unhappy, — may 
shock  you,"  he  says  to  her,  with  some  anxiety. 

"  No,  it  will  not  shock  me,"  returns  Mona,  quietly ;  where- 
upon he  sits  down,  and  Biddy  puts  a  basin  on  the  table,  and 
Mona,  with  trembling  fingers,  takes  a  scissors,  and  cuts  away 
the  shirt-sleeve  from  his  wounded  arm.     Then  she  bathes  it. 

After  a  moment  she  turns  deadly  pale,  and  says,  in  a  faint 
tone,  "  I  know  I  am  hurting  you  :  Ifeel  it."  And  in  truth  I 
believe  the  tender  heart  does  feel  it,  much  more  than  he  does. 
There  is  an  expression  that  amounts  to  agony  in  her  beautiful 
eyes. 

"  You  hurt  me !"  replies  he,  in  a  peculiar  tone,  that  is  not 
60  peculiar  but  it  fully  satisfies  her.  And  then  he  smiles, 
and,  seeing  old  Brian  has  once  more  returned  to  the  fire  and 
his  pipe,  and  Biddy  has  gone  for  fresh  water,  he  stoops  over 
the  reddened  basin,  and,  in  spite  of  all  the  unromantic  sur- 
roundings, kisses  her  as  fondly  as  if  roses  and  moonbeams  and 
dripping  fountains  and  perfumed  exotics  were  on  every  side. 
And  this,  because  true  romance — that  needs  no  outward  fire 
to  keep  it  warm — is  in  his  heart. 

And  now  Mona  knows  no  more  nervousness,  but  with  a 
steady  and  practised  hand  binds  up  his  arm,  and  when  all  is 
finished  pushes  him  gently  {very  gently)  from  her,  and  "  with 
heart  on  her  lips,  and  soul  within  her  eyes,"  surveys  with  pride 
her  handiwork. 

"  Now  I  hope  you  will  feel  less  pain,"  she  says,  with  mod- 
est triumph. 

"  I  feel  no  pain,"  returns  he,  gallantly. 

"  Well  said  !"  cries  the  old  man  from  the  chimney-comer, 
slapping  his  knee  with  delight ;  "  well  said,  indeed  I  It  r&- 
minds  me  of  the  ould  days  when  we'd  swear  any  lie  to  please 
the  lass  we  loved.     Ay,  very  good,  very  good." 

11* 


126  MRS.  GEOFFREY. 

At  this  Mona  and  Geoffrey  break  into  silent  laughter,  being 
overcome  by  the  insinuation  about  lying. 

"  Come  here  an'  sit  down,  lad,"  says  old  Scully,  unknowing 
of  their  secret  mirth,  "  an'  tell  me  all  about  it,  from  start  to 
finish, — that  Ryan's  a  thundering  rogue, — while  Mona  seen 
about  a  bed  for  ye." 

"  Oh,  no,"  says  Rodney,  hastily.  "  I  have  given  quite  too 
much  trouble  already.  I  assure  you  I  am  quite  well  enough 
now  to  ride  back  again  to  Bantry." 

"  To  Bantry,"  says  Mona,  growing  white  again, — "  to- 
night 1     Oh,  do  you  want  to  kill  me  and  yourself?" 

"  She  has  reason,"  says  the  old  man,  earnestly  and  approv- 
ingly, rounding  his  sentence  after  the  French  fashion,  as  the 
Irish  so  often  will :  "  she  has  said  it,''  he  goes  on,  "  she  always 
does  say  it ;  she  has  brains,  has  my  colleen.  Ye  don't  stir  out 
of  this  house  to-night,  Mr.  Rodney  ;  so  make  up  yer  mind  to 
it.  With  Tim  Ryan  abroad,  an'  probably  picked  up  and 
carried  home  by  this  time,  the  counthry  will  be  all  abroad,  an' 
no  safe  thravelliu'  for  man  or  baste.  Here's  a  cosey  sate  for 
ye  by  the  fire :  sit  down,  lad,  an'  take  life  aisy." 

"  If  I  was  quite  sure  I  shouldn't  be  dreadfully  in  the  way," 
says  Geoffrey,  turning  to  Mona,  she  being  mistress  of  the 
ceremonies. 

"  Be  quite  sure,"  returns  she,  smiling. 

"  And  to-morrow  ye  can  go  into  Banthry  an'  prosecute  that 
scoundrel  Ryan,"  says  Scully,  "  an'  have  yer  arm  properly  seen 
afther." 

"  So  I  can,"  says  Geoffrey.  Then,  not  for  any  special  rea- 
Bon,  but  because,  through  very  love  of  her,  he  is  always  look- 
ing at  her,  he  turns  his  eyes  on  Mona.  She  is  standing  by 
the  table,  with  her  head  bent  down. 

"  Yes,  to-morrow  you  can  have  your  arm  redressed,"  she 
says,  in  a  low  tone,  that  savors  of  sadness  ;  and  then  he  knows 
she  does  not  want  him  to  prosecute  Ryan. 

"  I  think  I'll  let  Ryan  alone,"  he  says,  instantly,  turning  to 
her  uncle  and  addressing  him  solely,  as  though  to  prove  him- 
self ignorant  of  Mona's  secret  wish.  "  I  have  given  him 
enough  to  last  him  some  time."  Yet  the  girl  reads  him 
through  and  through,  and  is  deeply  grateful  to  him  for  this 
quick  concession  to  her  unspoken  desire. 

"  Well,  well,  you're  a  good  lad  at  heart,"  says  Scully,  glad 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  127 

perhaps  in  his  inmost  soul,  as  his  countrymen  always  are  and 
will  be  when  a  compatriot  cheats  the  law  and  escapes  a  just 
judgment.  "  Mona,  look  after  him  for  a  while,  until  I  go 
an'  see  that  lazy  spalpeen  of  mine  an'  get  him  to  put  a  good 
bed  undher  Mr.  Rodney's  horse." 

When  the  old  man  has  gone,  Mona  goes  quickly  up  to  her 
lover,  and,  laying  her  hand  upon  his  arm, — a  hand  that  seems 
by  some  miraculous  means  to  have  grown  whiter  of  late, — 
says,  gratefully, — 

"  I  know  why  you  said  that  about  Ryan,  and  I  thank  you 
for  it.  I  should  not  like  to  think  it  was  your  word  had  trans- 
ported him." 

"  Yet,  I  am  letting  him  go  free  that  he  may  be  the  perpe- 
trator of  even  greater  crimes." 

"  You  err,  nevertheless,  on  the  side  of  mercy,  if  you  err  at 
all ;  and — perhaps  there  may  be  no  other  crimes.  He  may 
have  had  his  lesson  this  evening, — a  lasting  one.  To-morrow 
I  shall  go  to  his  cabin,  and " 

"  Now,  once  for  all,  Mona,"  interrupts  he,  with  determina- 
tion, "  I  strictly  forbid  you  ever  to  go  to  Ryan's  cottagfl 
again." 

It  is  the  first  time  he  has  ever  used  the  tone  of  authority 
towards  her,  and  involuntarily  she  shrinks  from  him,  and 
glances  up  at  him  from  under  her  long  lashes  in  a  half- 
frightened,  half-reproachful  fashion,  as  might  an  offended 
child. 

Following  her,  he  takes  both  her  hands,  and,  holding  them 
closely,  draws  her  back  to  her  former  position  beside  him. 

"  Forgive  me :  it  was  an  ugly  word,"  he  says :  "  I  take  it 
back.  I  shall  never  forbid  you  to  do  anything,  Mona,  if  my 
doing  so  must  bring  that  look  into  your  eyes.  Yet  surely 
there  are  moments  in  every  woman's  life  when  the  man  who 
loves  her,  and  whom  she  loves,  may  claim  from  her  obedience, 
when  it  is  for  her  own  good.  However,  let  that  pass.  I 
now  entreat  you  not  to  go  again  to  Ryan's  cabin." 

Releasing  her  hands  from  his  firm  grasp,  the  girl  lays  them 
lightly  crossed  upon  his  breast,  and  looks  up  at  him  with  per- 
fect trust : 

"  Nay,"  she  says,  very  sweetly  and  gravely,  "  you  mistake 
me.  I  am  glad  to  obey  you.  I  shall  not  go  to  Ryan's  house 
again." 


128  MRS.  OEOFFREY. 

There  is  both  dignity  and  tenderness  in  her  tone.  She 
gazes  at  him  earnestly  for  a  moment,  and  then  suddenly  slips 
one  arm  round  his  neck. 

'*  Geoffrey,"  she  says,  with  a  visible  effort. 

"  Yes,  darling." 

"  I  want  you  to  do  something  for  my  sake." 

"  I  will  do  anything,  my  own." 

"  It  is  for  my  sake  ;  but  it  will  break  my  heart." 

"  Mona  !  what  are  going  to  say  to  me?" 

"  I  want  you  to  leave  Ireland, — not  next  month,  or  next 
week,  but  at  once.     To-morrow,  if  possible." 

"  My  darling,  why?" 

"  Because  you  are  not  safe  here :  your  life  is  in  danger. 
Once  Ryan  is  recovered,  he  will  not  be  content  to  see  you 
living,  knowing  his  life  is  in  your  hands ;  every  hour  you 
will  be  in  danger.     Whatever  it  may  cost  me,  you  must  go." 

"That's  awful  nonsense,  you  know,"  says  Kodney,  lightly. 
*'  When  he  sees  I  haven't  taken  any  steps  about  arresting 
him,  he  will  forget  all  about  it,  and  bear  no  further  ill  will." 

"  You  don't  understand  this  people  as  I  do.  I  tell  you  he 
will  never  forgive  his  downfall  the  other  night,  or  the  thought 
that  he  is  in  your  power." 

"  Well,  at  all  events  I  sha'n't  go  one  moment  before  I  said 
I  should,"  says  Rodney. 

"  It  is  now  my  turn  to  demand  obedience,"  says  Mona,  with 
a  little  wan  attempt  at  a  smile.  "  Will  you  make  every  hour 
of  my  life  unhappy  ?  Can  I  live  in  the  thought  that  each 
minute  may  bring  me  evil  news  of  you, — may  bring  me 
tidings  of  your  death  ?"  Here  she  gives  way  to  a  passionate 
burst  of  grief,  and  clings  closer  to  him,  as  though  with  her 
soft  arms  to  shield  him  from  all  danger.  Her  tears  touch 
him. 

"  Well,  I  will  go,"  he  says,  "  on  one  condition, — that  you 
come  with  me." 

"  Impossible  1"  drawing  back  from  him.  "  How  could  I  be 
ready  ?  and,  besides,  I  have  said  I  will  not  marry  you  until  a 
year  goes  by.     How  can  I  break  my  word?" 

"  That  word  should  never  have  been  said.  It  is  better 
broken." 

"  Oh,  no." 

"  Very  well.     I  shall  not  ask  you  to  break  it.     But  I  shall 


MRS.  GEOFFREF.  129 

stay  on  here.  And  if,"  says  this  artful  young  man,  in  a  pur- 
posely doleful  tone,  "  anything  should  happen,  it  will " 

"  Don't  say  it  1  don't !"  cries  Mona,  in  an  agony,  stopping 
his  mouth  with  her  hand.  "  Do  not  I  Yes,  I  give  in.  I 
will  go  with  you.  I  will  marry  you  any  time  you  like,  tho 
sooner  the  better," — feverishly  ;  "  anything  to  save  your  life  I" 

This  is  hardly  complimentary,  but  Geoffrey  passes  it  over. 

"  This  day  week,  then,"  he  says,  having  heard,  and  taken 
to  heart  the  wisdom  of,  the  old  maxim  about  striking  while 
the  iron  is  hot. 

"  Very  well,"  says  Mona,  who  is  pale  and  thoughtful. 

And  then  old  Brian  comes  in,  and  Geoffrey  opens  out  to 
him  this  newly-devised  plan  ;  and  after  a  while  the  old  farmer, 
with  tears  in  his  eyes,  and  a  strange  quiver  in  his  voice  that 
cuts  through  Mona's  heart,  gives  his  consent  to  it,  and  mur- 
murs a  blessing  on  this  hasty  marriage  that  is  to  deprive  him 
of  all  he  best  loves  on  earth. 

And  so  they  are  married,  and  last  words  are  spoken,  and 
adieux  said,  and  sad  tears  fall,  and  for  many  days  her  own 
land  knows  jMona  no  more. 

And  that  night,  when  she  is  indeed  gone,  a  storm  comes 
up  from  the  sea,  and  dashes  the  great  waves  inward  upon  the 
rocky  coast.  And  triumphantly  upon  their  white  bosoms  the 
sea-mews  ride,  screaming  loudly  their  wild  sweet  song  that 
mingles  harmoniously  with  the  weird  music  of  the  winds  and 
waves. 

And  all  the  land  is  rich  with  angry  beauty  beneath  the 
rays  of  the  cold  moon,  that 

"  O'er  the  dark  her  silver  mantle  throws  ;" 

and  the  sobbing  waves  break  themselves  with  impotent  fury 
upon  the  giant  walls  of  granite  that  line  the  coast,  and  the 
clouds  descend  upon  the  hills,  and  the  sea-birds  shriek  aloud, 
»nd  all  nature  seems  to  cry  for  Mona. 

But  to  the  hill  of  Carrickdhuve,  to  sit  alone  and  gaze  m 
loving  silence  on  the  heuven-bom  grandeur  of  earth  and  sky 
and  sea,  comes  Mona  Scully  no  more  forever. 


130  MRS.  OEOFFREV. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

now  GEOFFREY  WRITES  A  LETTER  THAT  POSSESSES  ALL 
TUE  PROPERTIES  OF  DYNAMITE — AND  HOW  CONFUSION 
REIGNS   AT   THE   TOWERS. 

In  the  house  of  Rodney  there  is  mourning  and  woe. 
Horror  has  fallen  upon  it,  and  something  that  touches  oa 
disgrace.  Lady  Rodney,  leaning  back  in  her  chair  with  her 
scented  handkerchief  pressed  close  to  her  eyes,  sobs  aloud  and 
refuses  to  be  comforted. 

The  urn  is  hissing  angrily,  and  breathing  forth  defiance 
with  all  its  might.  It  is  evidently  possessed  with  the  belief 
that  the  teapot  has  done  it  some  mortal  injury,  and  is  waging 
on  it  war  to  the  knife. 

The  teapot,  meanwhile,  is  calmly  ignoring  its  rage,  and  is 
positively  turning  up  its  nose  at  it.  It  is  a  very  proud  old 
teapot,  and  is  looking  straight  before  it,  in  a  very  dignified 
fashion,  at  a  martial  row  of  cups  and  saucers  that  are  drawn 
up  in  battle-array  and  are  only  waiting  for  the  word  of  com- 
mand to  march  upon  the  enemy. 

But  this  word  comes  not.  In  vain  does  the  angry  urn  hiss. 
The  teapot  holds  aloft  its  haughty  nose  for  naught.  The  cups 
and  saucers  range  themselves  in  military  order  all  for  nothing. 
Lady  Rodney  is  dissolved  in  tears. 

"  Oh  I  Nicholas,  it  can't  be  true  I  it  really  can't .'"  she  says, 
alluding  to  the  news  contained  in  a  letter  Sir  Nicholas  is  read- 
ing with  a  puzzled  brow. 

He  is  a  tall  young  man,  about  thirty-two,  yet  looking 
younger,  with  a  somewhat  sallow  complexion,  large  dreamy 
brown  eyes,  and  very  fine  sleek  black  hair.  He  wears  neither 
moustache  nor  whiskers,  principally  for  the  very  good  reason 
that  Nature  has  forgotten  to  supply  them.  For  which  per- 
haps he  should  be  grateful,  as  it  would  have  been  a  cruel 
thing  to  hide  the  excessive  beauty  of  his  mouth  and  chin  and 
perfectly-turned  jaw.  These  are  his  chief  charms,  being  mild 
and  thoughtful,  yet  a  trifle  firm,  and  in  perfect  accordance 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  131 

with  the  upper  part  of  his  face.  He  is  hardly  handsome,  but 
is  certainly  attractive. 

In  manner  he  is  somewhat  indolent,  silent,  perhaps  lazy. 
But  there  is  about  him  a  subtle  charm  that  3ndears  him  to  all 
who  know  him.  Perhaps  it  is  his  innate  horror  of  offendint; 
the  feelings  of  any  one,  be  he  great  or  small,  and  perhaps  ii  .a 
his  inborn  knowledge  of  humanity,  and  the  power  he  pos- 
sesses (with  most  other  sensitive  people)  of  being  able  to  read 
the  thoughts  of  those  with  whom  he  comes  in  contact,  that 
enables  him  to  avoid  all  such  offence.  Perhaps  it  is  his 
honesty,  and  straightforwardness,  and  general,  if  inactive,  kind- 
liness of  disposition. 

He  takes  little  trouble  about  anything,  certainly  none  to 
make  himself  popular,  yet  in  all  the  country-side  no  man  is  so 
well  beloved  as  he  is.  It  is  true  that  a  kindly  word  here,  or  a 
smile  in  the  right  place,  does  more  to  make  a  man  a  social  idol 
than  substantial  deeds  of  charity  doled  out  by  an  unsympa- 
thetic hand.  This  may  be  unjust;  it  is  certainly  beyond  dis- 
pute the  fact. 

Just  now  his  forehead  is  drawn  up  into  a  deep  frown,  as  he 
reads  the  fatal  letter  that  has  reduced  his  mother  to  a  Niobe. 
Another  young  man,  his  brother.  Captain  Rodney,  who  is  two 
or  three  years  younger  than  he,  is  looking  over  his  shoulder, 
while  a  slight,  brown-haired,  very  aristocratic-looking  girl  is 
endeavoring,  in  a  soft,  modulated  voice,  to  convey  comfort  to 
Lady  Rodney. 

Breakfast  is  forgotten  ;  the  rolls  and  the  toast  and  the  kid- 
neys are  growing  cold.  Even  her  own  special  little  square  of 
home-made  bread  is  losing  its  crispness  and  fulling  into  a  de- 
jected state,  which  shows  almost  more  than  anything  else 
could  that  Lady  Rodney  is  very  far  gone  indeed. 

Violet  is  growing  as  nearly  frightened  as  good  breeding 
will  permit  at  the  protracted  sobbing,  when  Sir  Nicholas 
Bpeaks. 

"  It  is  inconceivable  1"  he  says  to  nobody  in  particular. 
"  What  on  earth  does  he  mean  ?"  He  turns  the  letter  round 
and  round  between  his  fingers  as  though  it  were  a  bombshell ; 
though,  indeed,  he  need  not  at  this  stage  of  the  proceedings 
have  been  at  all  afraid  of  it,  as  it  has  gone  off  long  ago  and 
reduced  Lady  Rodney  to  atoms.  "  I  shouldn't  have  thought 
Geoffrey  was  that  sort  of  fellow." 


132  MRS.  GEOFFREY. 

"  But  what  is  it  ?"  asks  Miss  Mansergh  from  behind  Lady 
Rodney's  chair,  just  a  little  impatiently. 

"  Why,  Geoffrey's  been  and  gone  and  got  married,"  says 
Jack  Rodney,  pulling  his  long  fair  moustache,  and  speaking 
rather  awkwardly.  It  has  been  several  times  hinted  to  him, 
since  his  return  from  India,  that,  Violet  Mansergh  being  re- 
served for  his  brother  Geoffrey,  any  of  his  attentions  in  that 
quarter  will  be  eyed  by  the  family  with  disfavor.  And  now 
to  tell  her  of  her  quondam  lover's  defection  is  not  pleasant. 
Nevertheless  he  watches  her  calmly  as  he  speaks. 

"  Is  that  all  ?"  says  Violet,  in  a  tone  of  surprise  certainly, 
but  as  certainly  in  one  of  relief 

"  No,  it  is  7iot  all,"  breaks  in  Sir  Nicholas.  "  It  appears  from 
this,"  touching  the  bombshell,  "  that  he  has  married  a — a — • 
young  woman  of  very  inferior  birth." 

"  Oh  !  that  is  really  shocking,"  says  Violet,  with  a  curl  of 
her  very  short  upper  lip. 

"  I  do  hope  she  isn't  the  under-housemaid,"  said  Jack, 
moodily.  "  It  has  grown  so  awfully  common.  Three  fellows 
this  year  married  under-housemaids,  and  people  are  tired  of  it 
now ;  one  can't  keep  up  the  excitement  always.  Anything 
new  might  create  a  diversion  in  his  favor,  but  he's  done  for  if 
be  has  married  another  under-housemaid." 

"  It  is  worse,"  says  Lady  Rodney,  in  a  stifled  tone,  coming 
out  for  a  brief  instant  from  behind  the  deluged  handkercbiof. 
"  He  has  married  a  common  farmer's  niece  I" 

"  Well,  you  know  that's  better  than  a  farmer's  common 
niece,"  says  Jack,  consolingly. 

"  What  does  he  say  about  it  ?"  asks  Violet,  who  shows  no 
sign  whatever  of  meaning  to  wear  the  willow  for  this  mis- 
guided Benedict,  but  rather  exhibits  all  a  woman's  natural 
curiosity  to  know  exactly  what  he  has  said  about  the  interest 
ing  event  that  has  taken  place. 

Sir  Nicholas  again  applies  himself  to  the  deciphering  of  the 
detested  letter.  "  '  He  would  have  written  before,  but  saw  no 
good  in  making  a  fuss  beforehand,' "  he  reads  slowly. 

"  Well,  there's  a  good  deal  of  sense  in  that,"  says  Jack. 

"  '  Quite  the  loveliest  girl  in  the  world,'  with  a  heavy  stroke 
under  the  '  quite.'  That's  always  so,  you  know :  uothiuo;  new 
or  striking  about  that."  Sir  Nicholas  all  through  is  sp«>idng 
in  a  tone  uniformly  moody  and  disgusted. 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  133 

"  It  is  a  point  in  her  favor  nevertheless,"  says  Jack,  who 
is  again  looking  over  his  shoulder  at  the  letter. 

" '  She  is  charming  at  all  points,' "  goes  on  Sir  Nicholas, 
deliberately  screwing  his  glass  into  his  eye,  "  '  with  a  mind  as 
eweet  as  her  face.'  Oh,  it  is  absurd !''  says  Sir  Nicholas,  im- 
patiently. "  He  is  evidently  in  the  last  stage  of  imbecility. 
Hopelessly  bewitched." 

"  And  a  very  good  thing,  too,"  puts  in  Jack,  tolerantly : 
"  it  won't  last,  you  know,  so  he  may  as  well  have  it  strong 
while  he  is  about  it." 

"  What  do  you  know  about  it  ?"  says  Sir  Nicholas,  turning 
the  tables  in  the  most  unexpected  fashion  upon  his  brother, 
and  looking  decidedly  ruffled,  for  no  reason  that  one  can  see, 
considering  it  is  he  himself  is  condemning  the  whole  matter 
so  heartily.  "  As  he  is  married  to  her,  I  sincerely  trust  his 
afifection  for  her  may  be  deep  and  lasting,  and  not  misplaced. 
She  may  be  a  very  charming  girl." 

"  She  may,"  says  Jack.  "  Well,  go  on.  What  more  does 
he  say  ?" 

"  '  He  will  write  again.  And  he  is  sure  we  shall  all  love 
her  when  we  see  her.'  That  is  another  sentence  that  goes 
without  telling.  They  are  always  sure  of  that  beforehand. 
They  absolutely  arrange  our  feelings  for  us  I  I  hope  he  wiU 
be  as  certain  of  it  this  time  six  months,  for  all  our  sakes." 

"  Poor  girl !  I  feel  honestly  sorry  for  her,"  says  Jack,  with 
a  mild  sigh.     "  What  an  awful  ass  he  has  made  of  himself  1" 

"  And  '  he  is  happier  now  than  he  has  ever  been  in  all  his 
life  before.'  Pshaw !"  exclaims  Sir  Nicholas,  shutting  up  the 
letter  impatiently.     "  He  is  mad !" 

"  Where  does  he  write  from?"  asks  Violet. 

"  From  the  Louvre.     They  are  in  Paris." 

"  He  has  been  married  a  whole  fortnight  and  never  deigned 
to  tell  his  own  mother  of  it  until  now,"  says  Lady  llodney, 
hysterically. 

"  A  whole  fortnight !  And  he  is  as  much  in  love  with 
her  as  ever  I  Oh!  she  can't  be  half  bad,"  says  Captain 
Rodney,  hopefully. 

"  Misfortunes  seem  to  crowd  upon  us,"  says  Lady  Rodney, 
Ditterly. 

*'  I  suppose  she  is  a  Roman  Catholic,"  says  Sir  Nicholas, 
musingly. 

12 


134  MRS.  OEOFFREV. 

At  this  Lady  Rodney  sits  quite  upright,  and  turns  appeal- 
ingly  to  Violet.     "  Oh,  Violet,  I  do  hope  not,"  she  says. 

"  Nearly  all  the  Irish  farmers  are,"  returns  Miss  Mansergh, 
reluctantly.  "  When  I  stay  with  Uncle  Wilfrid  in  West- 
nieath,  I  see  them  all  going  to  mass  every  Sunday  morning. 
Of  course" — kindly — "  there  are  a  few  Protestants,  but  they 
are  very  few." 

"  This  is  too  dreadful  I"  moans  Lady  Rodney,  sinking  back 
again  in  her  chair,  utterly  overcome  by  this  last  crowning 
blow.  She  clasps  her  hands  with  a  deplorable  gesture,  and 
indeed  looks  the  very  personification  of  disgusted  woe. 

"  Dear  Lady  Rodney,  I  shouldn't  take  that  so  much  to 
heart,"  says  Violet,  gently,  leaning  over  her.  "  Quite  good 
people  are  Catholics  now,  you  know.  It  is,  indeed,  the  fash- 
ionable religion,  and  rather  a  nice  one  when  you  come  to  think 
of  it." 

"  I  don't  want  to  think  of  it,"  says  her  friend,  desperately. 

"  But  do,"  goes  on  Violet,  in  her  soft,  even  monotone,  that 
is  so  exactly  suited  to  her  face.  "  It  is  rather  pleasant  think- 
ing. Confession,  you  know,  is  so  soothing ;  and  then  there 
are  always  the  dear  saints,  with  their  delightful  tales  of  roses 
and  lilies,  and  tears  that  turn  into  drops  of  healing  balm,  and 
their  bones  that  lie  in  little  glass  cases  in  the  churches  abroad. 
It  is  all  so  picturesque  and  pretty,  like  an  Italian  landscape. 
And  it  is  so  comfortable,  too,  to  know  that,  no  matter  how 
naughty  we  may  be  here,  we  can  still  get  to  heaven  at  last  by 
doing  some  great  and  charitable  deed." 

"  There  is  something  in  that,  certainly,"  says  Captain  Rod- 
ney, with  feeling.  "  I  wonder,  now,  what  great  and  charitable 
deed  I  could  do." 

"  And  then  isn't  it  sweet  to  think,"  continues  Violet, 
warming  to  her  subject,  "  that  when  one's  friends  are  dead 
one  can  still  be  of  some  service  to  them,  in  praying  for  their 
Bouls  ?  It  seems  to  keep  them  always  with  one.  They  don't 
seem  so  lost  to  us  as  they  would  otherwise." 

"  Violet,  please  do  not  talk  like  that;  I  forbid  it,"  says 
Lady  Rodney,  in  a  horrified  tone.  "  Nothing  could  make  me 
think  well  of  anything  connected  with  this — this  odious  girl ; 
and  when  you  speak  like  that  you  quite  upset  me.  You  will 
be  having  your  name  put  in  that  horrid  list  of  perverts  in  the 
'  Whitehall  Review'  if  you  don't  take  care." 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  135 

**  You  really  will,  you  know,"  says  Captain  Rodney,  warn- 
Ingly ;  then,  as  though  ambitious  of  piling  up  the  agony,  he  says, 
iotto  voce,  yet  loud  enough  to  bo  heard,  "  I  wonder  if  Geoff 
will  go  to  mass  with  her?" 

"  It  is  exactly  what  I  expect  to  hear  next,"  says  Geoff's 
mother,  with  the  calmness  of  despair. 

Then  there  is  silence  for  a  full  minute,  during  which  Miss 
Mansergh  casts  a  reproachful  glance  at  the  irrepressible 
Jack. 

"  Well,  I  hope  he  has  married  a  good  girl,  at  all  events," 
Bays  Sir  Nicholas,  presently,  with  a  sigh.  But  at  this  reason- 
able hope  Lady  Rodney  once  more  gives  way  to  bitter  sobs. 

"  Oh,  to  think  Geoffrey  should  marry  '  a  good  girl'  I"  she 
says  weeping  sadly.  "  One  would  think  you  were  speaking 
of  a  servant !  Oh  1  it  is  too  cruel !"  Here  she  rises  and 
makes  for  the  door,  but  on  the  threshold  pauses  to  confront 
Sir  Nicholas  with  angry  eyes.  "  To  hope  the  wretched  boy 
had  married  '  a  good  girl'  I"  she  says,  indignantly :  "  I  never 
heard  such  an  inhuman  wish  from  one  brother  to  another  1" 

She  withers  Sir  Nicholas  with  a  parting  glance,  and  then 
quits  the  room,  Violet  in  her  train,  leaving  her  eldest  son  en- 
tirely puzzled. 

"  What  does  she  mean  ?"  asks  he  of  his  brother,  who  is  dis- 
tinctly amused.  "  Does  she  wish  poor  old  Geoff  had  mamed 
a  bad  one  ?     I  confess  myself  at  fault." 

And  so  does  Captain  Rodney. 

Meantime,  Violet  b  having  rather  a  bad  time  in  the 
boudoir.  Lady  Rodney  refuses  to  see  light  anywhere,  and 
talks  on  in  a  disjointed  fashion  about  this  disgrace  that  has 
befallen  the  family. 

"  Of  course  I  shall  never  receive  her ;  that  is  out  of  the 
question,  Violet :  I  could  not  support  it." 

"  But  she  will  be  living  only  six  miles  from  you,  and  the 
county  will  surely  call,  and  that  will  not  be  nice  for  you,"  says 
Violet. 

"  I  don't  care  about  the  county.  It  must  think  what  it 
likes  ;  and  when  it  knows  her  it  will  sympathize  with  me. 
Oh  I  what  a  name  I  Scully  1  Was  there  ever  so  dreadful  a 
name?" 

"  It  is  not  a  bad  name  in  Ireland.  There  are  very  good 
people  of  that  name:  the  Vincent  Scullys, — everybody  has 


136  MRS.  OEOFFREF. 

heard  of  them,"  says  Violet,  gently.  But  her  friend  will  not 
consent  to  believe  anything  that  may  soften  the  thought  of 
Mona.  The  girl  has  entrapped  her  son,  has  basely  captured 
him  and  made  him  her  own  beyond  redemption ;  and  what 
words  can  be  bad  enough  to  convey  her  hatred  of  the  woman 
who  has  done  this  deed  ? 

"  I  meant  him  for  you,"  she  says,  in  an  ill-advised  moment, 
addressing  the  girl  who  is  bending  over  her  couch  assiduously 
and  tenderly  applying  eau-de-cologne  to  her  temples.  It  is 
just  a  little  too  much.  Miss  Mansergh  fails  to  see  the  com- 
pliment in  this  remark.  She  draws  her  breath  a  little  quickly, 
and  as  the  color  comes  her  temper  goes. 

"  Dear  Lady  Rodney,  you  are  really  too  kind,"  she  says,  in 
a  tone  soft  and  measured  as  usual,  but  without  the  sweetness. 
In  her  heart  there  is  something  that  amounts  as  nearly  to  in- 
dignant anger  as  so  thoroughly  well-bred  and  well  regulated  a 
girl  can  feel.  "  You  are  better,  I  think,"  she  says,  calmly, 
without  any  settled  foundation  for  the  thought ;  and  then  she 
lays  down  the  perfume-bottle,  takes  up  her  handkerchief,  and, 
with  a  last  unimportant  word  or  two,  walks  out  of  the  room. 


CHAPTER  XV. 


HOW  LADY  RODNEY  SPEAKS  HER  MIND — HOW  GEOFFREY 
DOES  THE  SAME — AND  HOW  MONA  DECLARES  HERSELF 
STRONG   TO    CONQUER. 

It  is  the  14th  of  December,  and  "  bitter  chill."  Upon  all 
the  lawns  and  walks  at  the  Towers,  "  Nature,  the  vicar  of  the 
almightie  Lord,"  has  laid  its  white  winding-sheet.  In  the 
long  avenue  the  gaunt  and  barren  branches  of  the  stately  elms 
are  bowed  down  with  the  weight  of  the  snow,  that  fell  softly 
but  heavily  all  last  night,  creeping  upon  the  sleeping  world 
with  such  swift  and  noiseless  wings  that  it  recked  not  of  its 
visit  till  the  chill  beams  of  a  wintry  sun  betrayed  it. 

Each  dark-green  leaf  in  the  long  shrubberies  bears  its  own 
sparkling  burden.     The  birds  hide  shivering  in  the  laurestine, 


MRS.  OEOFFREY.  137 

— that  in  spite  of  frost  and  cold  is  breaking  into  blossom,-^ 
and  all  around  looks  frozen. 

"  Full  knee-deep  lies  the  winter  snow, 
And  the  winter  winds  are  wearily  sighing;" 

yet  there  is  grandeur,  too,  in  the  scene  around,  and  a  beauty 
scarcely  to  be  rivalled  by  June's  sweetest  efforts. 

Geoffrey,  springing  down  from  the  dog-cart  that  has  been 
sent  to  the  station  to  meet  him,  brushes  the  frost  from  his 
hair,  and  stamps  his  feet  upon  the  stone  steps. 

Sir  Nicholas,  who  has  come  out  to  meet  him,  gives  him  a 
hearty  hand-shake,  and  a  smile  that  would  have  been  charming 
if  it  had  not  been  funereal.  Altogether,  his  expression  is  such 
as  might  suit  the  death-bed  of  a  beloved  friend.  His  coun- 
tenance Ls  of  an  unseemly  length,  and  he  plainly  looks  on 
Geoffrey  as  one  who  has  fallen  upon  evil  days. 

Nothing  daunted,  however,  by  this  reception,  Geoffrey  re- 
turns his  grasp  with  interest,  and,  looking  fresh  and  young 
and  happy,  runs  past  him,  up  the  stairs,  to  his  mother's  room, 
to  beard — as  he  unfilially  expresses  it^ — the  lioness  in  her  den. 
It  is  a  very  cosey  den,  and,  though  claws  may  be  discovered 
in  it,  nobody  at  the  first  glance  would  ever  suspect  it  of  such 
dangerous  toys.  Experience,  however,  teaches  most  things, 
and  Geoffrey  has  douued  armor  for  the  coming  encounter. 

He  had  left  Mona  in  the  morning  at  the  Grosvenor,  and  had 
run  down  to  have  it  out  with  his  mother  and  get  her  permission 
to  bring  Mona  to  the  Towers  to  be  introduced  to  her  and  his 
brothers.  This  he  preferred  to  any  formal  calling  on  their  parts. 

"  You  see,  our  own  house  is  rather  out  of  repair  from  being 
untenanted  for  so  long,  and  will  hardly  be  ready  for  us  for  a 
month  or  two,"  he  said  to  Mona :  '•  I  think  I  will  run  down 
to  the  Towers  and  tell  my  mother  we  will  go  to  her  for  a  little 
while." 

Of  course  this  was  on  the  day  after  their  return  to  England, 
before  his  own  people  knew  of  their  arrival. 

"  I  shall  like  that  very  much,"  Mona  had  returned,  inno- 
cently, not  dreaming  of  the  ordeal  that  awaited  her, — because 
in  such  cases  even  the  very  best  men  will  be  deceitful,  and 
Geoffrey  had  rather  led  her  to  believe  that  his  mother  would 
be  chai-med  with  her,  and  that  she  was  more  pleased  than 
otherwise  at  their  marriage. 

12* 


138  MRS.  GEOFFREY. 

When  she  made  him  this  little  trustful  speech,  however,  he 
had  felt  some  embarrassment,  and  had  turned  his  attentiwi 
upon  a  little  muddy  boy  who  was  playing  pitch-and-toss,  irre- 
epective  of  consequences,  on  the  other  side  of  the  way. 

And  Mona  had  marked  his  embarrassment,  and  had  quickly, 
with  all  the  vivacity  that  belongs  to  her  race,  drawn  her  own 
conclusions  therefrom,  which  were  for  the  most  part  correct. 

But  to  Geoffrey — lest  the  telling  should  cause  him  unhappi- 
Dess — she  had  said  nothing  of  her  discovery ;  only  when  the 
morning  came  that  saw  him  depart  upon  his  mission  (now  so 
well  understood  by  her),  she  had  kissed  him,  and  told  him  to 
"  hurry,  hurry,  hurri/  back  to  her,"  with  a  little  sob  between 
each  word.  And  when  he  was  gone  she  had  breathed  an 
earnest  prayer,  poor  child,  that  all  might  yet  be  well,  and  then 
told  herself  that,  no  matter  what  came,  she  would  at  least  be 
a  faithful,  loving  wife  to  him. 

To  her  it  is  always  as  though  he  is  devoid  of  name.  It  is 
always  "  he"  and  "  his"  and  "  him,"  all  through,  as  though 
no  other  man  existed  upon  earth. 

"Well,  mother?"  says  Geoffrey,  when  he  has  gained  her 
room  and  received  her  kiss,  which  is  not  exactly  all  it  ought 
to  be  after  a  five  months'  separation.  He  is  her  son,  and  of 
course  she  loves  him,  but — as  she  tells  herself — there  are  some 
things  hard  to  forgive. 

"  Of  course  it  was  a  surprise  to  you,"  he  says. 

"  It  was  more  than  a  '  surprise.'  That  is  a  mild  word," 
Bays  Lady  Rodney.  She  is  looking  at  him,  and  is  telling  her- 
self what  a  goodly  son  he  is,  so  tall  and  strong  and  bright  and 
handsome.     He  might  have  married  almost  any  one  1     And 

now now No,  she  cannot  forgive.     "  It  was,  and  must 

always  be,  a  lasting  grief,"  she  goes  on,  in  a  low  tone. 

This  is  a  bad  beginning.  Mr.  Rodney,  before  replying, 
iudiciously  gains  time,  and  makes  a  diversion  by  poking  the 

fire. 

"  I  should  have  written  to  you  about  it  sooner,"  he  says  at 
last,  apologetically,  hoping  half  his  mother's  resentment  arises 
from  a  sense  of  his  own  negligence,  ''  but  I  felt  you  would 
object,  and  so  put  it  off  from  day  to  day." 

"  I  heard  of  it  soon  enough,"  returns  his  mother,  gloomily, 
without  lifting  her  eyes  from  the  tiny  feathered  fire-screen  she 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  139 

is  holding.  "  Too  soon  !  That  sort  of  thing  seldom  tarries. 
*  For  evil  news  rides  post,  while  good  news  baits.'  " 

"  Wait  till  you  see  her,"  says  Geoffrey,  after  a  little  pause, 
with  full  fliith  in  his  own  recipe. 

"  I  don't  want  to  see  her,"  is  the  unflinching  and  most  un- 
gracious reply. 

"  My  dear  mother,  don't  say  that,"  entreats  the  young  man, 
earnestly,  going  over  to  her  and  placing  his  arm  round  her 
neck.  He  is  her  favorite  sou,  of  which  he  is  quite  aware, 
and  so  hopes  on.     "  What  is  it  you  object  to?" 

"  To  everything  1  How  could  you  think  of  bringing  a 
daughter-in-law  of — of — her  description  to  your  mother?" 

"  How  can  you  describe  her,  when  you  have  not  seen  her?" 

"  She  is  not  a  lady,"  says  Lady  Kodney,  as  though  that 
should  terminate  the  argument. 

"  It  entirely  depends  on  what  you  consider  a  lady,"  says 
Geoffrey,  calmly,  keeping  his  temper  wonderfully,  more  indeed 
for  Mona's  sake  than  his  own.  "  You  think  a  few  grand- 
fathers and  an  old  name  make  one :  I  dare  say  it  does.  It 
ought,  you  know ;  though  I  could  tell  you  of  several  striking 
exceptions  to  that  rule.  But  I  also  believe  in  a  nobility  that 
belongs  alone  to  nature.  And  Mona  is  as  surely  a  gentle- 
woman in  thought  and  deed  as  though  all  the  blood  of  all  the 
Howards  was  in  her  veins." 

"  I  did  not  expect  you  would  say  anything  else,"  returns 
she,  coldly.     "  Is  she  quite  without  blood  ?" 

"  Her  mother  was  of  good  family,  I  believe." 

"  You  believe  1"  "with  ineffable  disgust.  "  And  have  you 
not  even  taken  the  trouble  to  make  sure  ?  How  late  in  life 
you  have  developed  a  trusting  disposition !" 

"  One  might  do  worse  than  put  faith  in  Mona,"  says  Geof- 
frey, quickly.  "  She  is  worthy  of  all  trust.  And  she  is 
quite  charming, — quite.  And  the  very  prettiest  girl  I  ever 
saw.  You  know  you  adore  beauty,  mother," — insinuatingly, 
— "  and  she  is  sure  to  create  a  furor  when  presented." 

"  Presented  I"  repeats  Lady  Rodney,  in  a  dreadful  tone. 
"  And  would  you  present  a  low  Irish  girl  to  your  sovereign  ? 
And  just  now,  too,  when  the  whole  horrid  nation  is  in  such 
disrepute." 

"  You  mustn't  call  her  names,  you  know  ;  she  is  my  wife," 
Bays  Eodney,  gently,  but  with  dignity, — "  the  woman  I  love 


140  MRS.  GEOFFREY. 

and  honor  most  on  earth.  When  you  see  her  you  will  un- 
derstand how  the  word  '  low'  could  never  apply  to  her.  She 
looks  quite  correct,  and  is  perfectly  lovely." 

"  You  are  in  love,"  recurns  his  mother,  contemptuously. 
"  At  present  you  can  see  no  fault  in  her  ;  but  later  on,  when 
you  come  to  compare  her  with  the  other  women  in  your  own 
set,  when  you  see  them  together,  I  only  hope  you  will  see  no 
diftereuce  between  them,  and  feel  no  regret." 

She  says  this,  however,  as  though  it  is  her  one  desire  that 
he  may  know  regret,  and  feel  a  diflerence  that  will  be  over- 
whelming. 

"  Thank  you,"  says  Geoffrey,  a  little  dryly,  accepting  her 
words  as  they  are  said,  not  as  he  feels  they  are  meant. 

Then  there  is  another  pause,  rather  longer  than  the  last. 
Lady  Rodney  trifles  with  the  fan  in  a  somewhat  excited  fash- 
ion, and  Geoffrey  gazes,  man-like,  at  his  boots.  At  last  his 
mother  breaks  the  silence. 

"  Is  she — is  she  noisy?"  she  asks,  in  a  faltering  tone. 

"  Well,  she  can  laugh,  if  you  mean  that,"  says  Geoffrey, 
somewhat  superciliously.  And  then,  as  though  overcome 
with  some  recollection  in  which  the  poor  little  criminal  who  is 
before  the  bar  bore  a  humorous  part,  he  lays  his  head  down 
upon  the  mantel-piece  and  gives  way  to  hearty  laughter  him- 
self. 

"  I  understand,"  says  Lady  Rodney,  faintly,  feeling  her 
burden  is  "  greater  than  she  can  bear."  "  She  is,  without 
telling,  a  young  woman  who  laughs  uproariously  at  everything, 
— no  matter  what, — and  takes  good  care  her  vulgarity  shall 
be  read  by  all  who  run." 

Now,  I  can't  explain  why,  but  I  never  knew  a  young  man 
who  was  not  annoyed  when  the  girl  he  loved  was  spoken  of  as 
a  "  young  woman."     Geoffrey  takes  it  as  a  deliberate  insult. 

"  There  is  a  limit  to  everything, — even  my  patience,"  he 
says,  not  looking  at  his  mother,  "  Mona  is  myself,  and  even 
from  you,  my  mother,  whom  I  love  and  reverence,  I  will  not 
take  a  disparaging  word  of  her." 

There  is  a  look  upon  his  face  that  recalls  to  her  his  dead 
father,  and  Lady  Rodney  grows  silent.  The  husband  of  her 
youth  had  been  dear  to  her,  in  a  way,  until  age  had  soured 
him,  and  this  one  of  all  his  three  children  most  closely  resem- 
bled him,  both  in  form  and  in  feature;  hence,  perhaps,  her  lovo 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  141 

for  him.  She  lowers  her  eyes,  and  a  slow  blush — for  the 
blood  rises  with  difficulty  in  the  old — suffuses  her  face. 

And  then  Geoffrey,  marking  all  this,  is  vexed  within  him- 
self, and,  going  over  to  her,  lays  his  arm  once  more  around 
her  neck,  and  presses  his  cheek  to  hers. 

"  Don't  let  us  quarrel,"  he  says,  lovingly.  And  this  time 
she  returns  his  caress  very  fondly,  though  she  cannot  loso 
sight  of  the  foct  that  he  has  committed  a  social  error  not  to 
be  lightly  overlooked. 

"  Oh,  Geoffrey,  how  could  you  do  it?"  she  says,  reproach- 
fully, alluding  to  his  marriage, — "  you  whom  I  have  so  loved. 
What  would  your  poor  father  have  thought  had  he  lived  to  see 
this  unhappy  day?     You  must  have  been  mad." 

"  Well,  perhaps  I  was,"  says  Geoffrey,  easily  :  "  we  are  all 
mad  on  one  subject  or  another,  you  know  ;  mine  may  be  Mona. 
She  is  an  excuse  for  madness,  certainly.  At  all  events,  I  know 
I  am  happy,  which  quite  carries  out  your  theory,  because,  as 
Dryden  says, — 

'There  is  a  pleasure  sure 
In  being  mad,  whioL  none  but  madmen  linow.* 

I  wish  you  would  not  take  it  so  absurdly  to  heart.  I  haven't 
married  an  heiress,  I  know ;  but  the  whole  world  does  not 
hinge  on  money." 

"  There  was  Violet,"  says  Lady  Rodney. 

"  I  wouldn't  have  suited  her  at  all,"  says  Geoffrey.  "  I 
should  have  bored  her  to  extinction,  even  if  she  had  conde- 
scended to  look  at  me,  which  I  am  sure  she  never  would." 

He  is  not  sure  of  anything  of  the  kind,  but  he  says  it 
nevertheless,  feeling  he  owes  so  much  to  Violet,  as  the  con- 
versation has  drifted  towards  her,  and  he  feels  she  is  placed 
— though  unknown  to  herself — in  a  false  position. 

"  I  wish  you  had  never  gone  to  Ireland  !"  says  Lady  Rod- 
ney, deeply  depressed.  "  My  heart  misgave  me  when  you 
went,  though  I  never  anticipated  such  a  climax  to  my  fears. 
What  possessed  you  to  fall  in  love  with  her?" 

"'She  is  pretty  to  walk  with, 
And  witty  to  talk  with. 
And  pleasant,  too,  to  think  on,'" 

quotes  Geoffrey,  lightly.     "  Arc  not  those  three  reasons  sufiEi- 


142  MRS.  QEOFFREY. 

cient?  If  not,  I  could  tell  you  a  score  of  others,  I  may 
briug  her  dowu  to  see  you  ?" 

"  It  will  be  very  bitter  to  me,"  says  Lady  Rodney. 

"  It  will  not :  I  promise  you  that ;  only  do  not  be  too  preju- 
diced in  her  disfavor.  I  want  you  to  know  her, — it  is  my 
greatest  desire, — or  I  should  not  say  another  word  after  your 
last  speech,  which  is  not  what  I  hoped  to  hear  from  you. 
Leii^hton,  as  you  know,  is  out  of  repair,  but  if  you  will  not 
receive  us  we  can  spend  the  rest  of  the  winter  at  Home,  or 
anywhere  else  that  may  ociur  to  us." 

"  Of  course  you  must  come  here,"  says  Lady  Rodney,  who 
is  afraid  of  the  county  and  what  it  will  say  if  it  discovers  she 
is  at  loggerheads  with  her  son  and  his  bride.  But  there  is  no 
welcome  in  her  tone.  And  Geoffrey,  greatly  discouraged,  yet 
determined  to  part  friends  with  her  for  Mona's  sake, — and 
trusting  to  the  latter's  sweetness  to  make  all  things  straight 
in  the  future, — after  a  few  more  desultory  remarks  takes  his 
departure,  with  the  understanding  on  both  sides  that  he  and 
his  wife  are  to  come  to  the  Towers  on  the  Friday  following 
and  take  up  their  quarters  there  until  Leighton  Hull  is  ready 
to  receive  them. 

With  mingled  feelings  he  quits  his  home,  and  all  the  way 
up  to  London  in  the  afternoon  train  weighs  with  himself  the 
momentous  question  whether  he  shall  or  shall  not  accept  the 
unwilling  invitation  to  the  Towers,  wrung  from  his  mother. 

To  travel  here  and  there,  from  city  to  city  and  village  to 
village,  with  Mona,  would  be  a  far  happier  arrangement. 
But  underlying  all  else  is  the  longing  that  the  wife  whom  he 
adores  and  the  mother  whom  he  loves  should  be  good  friends. 

Finally,  he  throws  up  the  mental  argument,  and  decides  on 
letting  things  take  their  course,  telling  himself  it  will  be  a 
simple  matter  to  leave  the  Towers  at  any  moment,  should  their 
visit  there  prove  unsatisfactory.  At  the  farthest,  Leighton 
must  be  ready  for  them  in  a  month  or  so. 

Getting  back  to  the  Grosvenor,  he  runs  lightly  up  the 
stairs  to  the  sitting-room,  and,  opening  the  door  very  gently, 
— bent  in  a  boyish  f\ishion  on  giving  her  a  "  rise," — enters 
softly,  and  looks  around  for  his  darling. 

At  the  farthest  end  of  the  room,  near  a  window,  lying  back 
in  an  arm-chair,  lies  Mona,  sound  asleep. 

One  hand  is  beneath  her  cheek, — that  is  soft  and  moist  as 


MRS.  QEOFFREY.  143 

a  child's  might  be  in  innocent  slumber, — the  other  is  thrown 
above  her  head.  She  is  exquisite  in  her  abamlon,  but  very 
paJe,  and  her  breath  comes  unevenly. 

Geoflfrey,  stooping  over  her  to  wake  her  with  a  kiss,  marks 
all  this,  and  also  that  her  eyelids  are  tinged  with  pink,  as 
though  from  excessive  weeping. 

Half  alarmed,  he  lays  his  hand  gently  on  her  shoulder,  and, 
as  she  struggles  quickly  into  life  again,  he  draws  her  into  hia 
arms. 

"  Ah,  it  is  you !"  cries  she,  her  face  growing  glad  again. 

"  Yes ;  but  you  have  been  crying,  darling  1  What  has 
happened  ?" 

"  Oh,  nothing,"  says  Mona,  flushing.  "  I  suppose  I  was 
lonely.  Don't  mind  me.  Tell  me  all  about  yourself  and  your 
visit." 

"  Not  until  you  tell  me  what  made  you  cry." 

"  Sure  you  know  I'd  tell  you  if  there  was  anything  to  tell," 
replies  she,  evasively. 

"  Then  do  so,"  returns  he,  quite  gravely,  not  to  be  deceived 
by  her  very  open  attempts  at  dissimulation.  "  What  made 
you  unhappy  in  my  absence?" 

"  If  you  must  know,  it  is  this,"  says  Mona,  laying  her  hand 
in  his  and  speaking  very  earnestly.  "  I  am  afraid  I  have 
done  you  an  injury  in  marrying  you  1" 

"  Now,  that  is  the  first  unkind  thing  you  have  ever  said  to 
me,"  retorts  he. 

"  I  would  rather  die  than  be  unkind  to  you,"  says  Mona, 
running  her  fingers  with  a  glad  sense  of  appropriation  through 
his  hair.  "  But  this  is  what  I  mean  :  your  mother  will  never 
forgive  your  marriage ;  she  will  not  love  me,  and  I  shall  bo 
the  cause  of  creating  dissension  between  her  and  you."  Again 
tears  fill  her  eyes. 

"  But  there  you  are  wrong.  There  need  be  no  dissensions ; 
my  mother  and  I  are  very  good  friends,  and  she  expects  us 
both  to  go  to  the  Towers  on  Friday  next." 

Then  he  tells  her  all  the  truth  about  his  interview  with  his 
mother,  only  suppressing  such  words  as  would  be  detrimental 
ta  the  cause  he  has  in  hand,  and  miglit  give  her  pain. 

"  And  when  she  sees  you  all  will  be  well,"  he  says,  still 
clinging  bravely  to  his  faith  in  this  panacea  for  all  evils. 
•'  Everything  rests  with  you." 


144  MRS.  GEOFFREY. 

"  I  will  do  my  best,"  says  Mona,  earnestly ;  "  but  if  I  fail, 
— if  after  all  my  eflPorts  your  mother  still  refuses  to  love  me, 
how  will  it  be  then  ?" 

"  As  it  is  now  ;  it  need  make  no  difference  to  us  ;  and  in- 
deed I  will  not  make  the  trial  at  all  if  you  shrink  from  it,  or 
if  it  makes  you  in  the  faintest  dep-ee  unhappy." 

"  I  do  not  shrink  from  it,"  replies  she,  bravely  :  "  I  would 
brave  anything  to  be  friends  with  your  mother." 

"  Very  well,  then :  we  will  make  the  attempt,"  says  he, 
gayly.     "  '  Nothing  venture,  nothing  have.'  " 

"  And  '  A  dumb  priest  loses  his  benefice,'  "  quotes  Mona, 
in  her  turn,  almost  gayly  too. 

"  Yet  remember,  darling,  whatever  comes  of  it,"  says  Rod- 
ney, earnestly,  "  that  you  are  more  to  me  than  all  the  world, 
— my  mother  included.  So  do  not  let  defeat — if  we  should 
be  defeated — cast  you  down.  Never  forget  how  I  love  you." 
In  his  heart  he  dreads  for  her  the  trial  that  awaits  her. 

*'  I  do  not,"  she  says,  sweetly.  "  I  could  not :  it  is  my 
dearest  remembrance ;  and  somehow  it  has  made  me  strong  to 
coiKjuer,  Geoffrey," — flushing,  and  raising  herself  to  her  full 
height,  as  though  already  arming  for  action, — "  I  feel,  I 
know,  I  shall  in  the  end  succeed  with  your  mother." 

She  lifts  her  luminous  eyes  to  his,  and  regards  him  fixedly 
as  she  speaks,  full  of  hopeful  excitement.  Her  eyes  have 
always  a  peculiar  fascination  of  their  own,  apart  from  the  rest 
of  her  face.  Once  looking  at  her,  as  though  for  the  first  time 
impressed  with  this  idea,  Geoffrey  had  said  to  her,  "  I  never 
look  at  your  eyes  that  I  don't  feel  a  wild  desire  to  close  them 
with  a  kiss."  To  which  she  had  made  answer  in  her  little, 
lovable  way,  and  with  a  bewitching  glance  from  the  lovely 
orbs  in  question,  "  If  that  is  how  you  mean  to  do  it,  you 
may  close  them  just  as  often  as  ever  you  like." 

Now  he  takes  advantage  of  this  general  permission,  and 
closes  them  with  a  soft  caress. 

"  She  must  be  harder-hearted  than  I  think  her,  if  she  can 
resist  you,"  he  says,  fondly. 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  145 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

HOW  GEOFFREY  AND  MONA  ENTER  THE  TOWERS — AND  HOW 
THEY   ARE   RECEIVED    BY   THE    INHABITANTS    THEREOF, 

The  momentous  Friday  comes  at  last,  and  about  noon  Mona 
and  GeoflPrey  start  for  the  Towers.  They  are  not,  perhaps,  in 
the  exuberant  spirits  that  should  be  theirs,  considerino;  they 
are  going  to  spend  their  Christmas  in  the  bosom  of  their 
family, — at  all  events,  of  Geoffrey's  family,  which  naturally  for 
the  future  she  must  acknowledge  as  hers.  They  are  indeed 
not  only  silent,  but  desponding,  and  as  they  get  out  of  the 
train  at  Greatham  and  enter  the  carriage  sent  by  Sir  Nicholas 
to  meet  them  their  hearts  sink  nearly  into  their  boots,  and 
for  several  minutes  no  words  pass  between  them. 

To  Geoffrey  perhaps  the  coming  ordeal  bears  a  deeper  shade  ; 
as  Mona  hardly  understands  all  that  awaits  her.  That  Lady 
Rodney  is  a  little  displeased  at  her  son's  marriage  she  can 
readily  believe,  but  that  she  has  made  up  her  mind  beforehand 
to  dislike  her,  and  intends  waging  with  her  war  to  the  knife, 
is  more  than  has  ever  entered  into  her  gentle  mind. 

"  Is  it  a  long  drive,  Geoff?"  she  asks,  presently,  in  a  trem- 
bling tone,  slipping  her  hand  into  his  in  the  old  fashion. 

"  About  six  miles.  I  say,  darling,  keep  up  your  spirits  :  if 
we  don't  like  it,  we  can  leave,  you  know.  But" —  alluding  to 
her  subdued  voice — "  don't  be  imagining  evil." 

"  I  don't  think  I  am,"  says  Mona ;  "  but  the  thought  of 
meeting  people  for  the  first  time  makes  me  feel  nervous.  Is 
your  mother  tall,  Geoffrey  ?" 

"  Very," 

"  And  severe-looking?     You  said  she  was  like  you." 

"  Well,  so  she  is ;  and  yet  I  suppose  our  expressions  are 
dissimilar.  Look  here,"  says  Geoffrey,  suddenly,  as  though 
compelled  at  the  last  moment  to  give  her  a  hint  of  what  is 
coming,  "  I  want  to  tell  you  about  her, — my  mother  I  mean  : 
she  is  all  right,  you  know,  in  every  way,  and  very  charming 
in  general,  but  just  at  first  one  might  imagine  her  a  little 
diffi'jult  I" 

Q        k  1.3 


14G  MRS.  GEOFFREY. 

"What's  that?"  asked  Mona.  "Don't  speak  of  your 
mother  as  if  she  was  a  chromatic  scale." 

"  I  mean  she  seems  a  trifle  cold,  unfriendly,  and — er — 
that,"  says  Geoffrey.  "  Perhaps  it  would  be  a  wise  thing  for 
you  to  make  up  your  mind  what  you  will  say  to  her  on  first 
meeting  her.  She  will  come  up  to  you,  you  know,  and  give 
you  her  hand  like  this,"  taking  hers,  "  and " 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  says  Mona,  eagerly  interrupting  him.  "  And 
then  she  will  put  her  arms  round  me,  and  kiss  me  just  Uke 
this,"  suiting  the  action  to  the  word. 

"Like  that?  Not  a  bit  of  it,"  says  Geoffrey,  who  haa 
given  her  two  kisses  for  her  one:  "you  mustn't  expect  it. 
She  isn't  in  the  least  like  that.  She  will  meet  you  probably 
as  though  she  saw  you  yesterday,  and  say,  'How  d'ye  do? 
I'm  afraid  you  have  had  a  very  long  and  cold  drive.'  And 
then  you  will  say " 

A  pause. 

"  Yes,  I  shall  say "  anxiously. 

"  You — will — say "     Here  he  breaks  down  ignomini- 

ously,  and  confesses  by  bis  inability  to  proceed  that  he  doesn't 
in  the  least  know  what  it  is  she  can  say. 

"  I  know,"  says  Mona,  brightening,  and  putting  on  an  air 
80  different  from  her  own  usual  unaffected  one  as  to  strike 
her  listener  with  awe.  "  I  shall  say,  '  Oh  !  thanks,  quite 
too  awfully  much,  don't  you  know?  but  Geoffrey  and  I 
didn't  find  it  a  bit  long,  and  we  were  as  warm  as  wool  all  the 
time.' " 

At  this  appalling  speech  Geoffrey's  calculations  fall  through, 
and  he  gives  himself  up  to  undisguised  mirth. 

"  If  you  say  all  that,"  he  says,  "  there  will  be  wigs  on  the 
green :  that's  Irish,  isn't  it  ?  or  something  like  it,  and  very 
well  applied  too.  The  first  part  of  your  speech  sounded  like 
Toole  or  Brough,  I'm  not  sure  which." 

"  Well,  it  was  in  a  theatre  I  heard  it,"  confesses  Mona, 
meekly  :  "  it  was  a  great  lord  who  said  it  on  the  stage,  so  I 
thought  it  would  be  all  right." 

"  Great  lords  are  not  necessarily  faultlessly  correct,  either 
on  or  off  the  stage,"  says  Geoffrey.  "  But,  just  for  choice,  I 
prefer  them  off  it.  No,  that  will  not  do  at  all.  When  my 
mother  addresses  you,  you  are  to  answer  her  back  again  in 
tones  even  colder  than  her  own,  and  say " 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  147 

"But,  Geoffrey,  why  should  I  be  cold  to  your  mother? 
Sure  you  wouldn't  have  me  be  uncivil  to  her,  of  all  people  ?" 

"  Not  uncivil,  but  cool.  You  will  say  to  her,  '  It  was 
rather  better  than  I  anticipated,  thank  you.'  And  then,  if 
you  can  manage  to  look  bored,  it  will  be  quite  correct,  so  far, 
and  you  may  tell  yourself  you  have  scored  one." 

"  I  may  say  that  horrid  speech,  but  I  certainly  can't  pro- 
tend I  was  bored  during  our  drive,  because  I  am  not,"  says 
Mona. 

"  I  know  that.  If  I  was  not  utterly  sure  of  it  I  should 
instantly  commit  suicide  by  precipitating  myself  under  tho 
carriage-wheels,"  says  Geoffrey.  "  Still — '  let  us  dissemble.' 
Now  say  what  I  told  you." 

So  Mrs.  Rodney  says,  "  It  was  rather  better  than  I  antici- 
pated, thank  you,"  in  a  tone  so  icy  that  his  is  warm  beside  it. 

"  But  suppose  she  doesn't  say  a  word  about  the  drive  ?" 
says  Mona,  thoughtfully.     "  How  will  it  be  then  ?" 

"  She  is  safe  to  say  something  about  it,  and  that  will  do  for 
anything,"  says  Rodney,  out  of  the  foolishness  of  his  heart. 

And  now  the  horses  draw  up  before  a  brilliantly-lighted 
hall,  the  doors  of  which  are  thrown  wide  open  as  though  in 
hospitable  expectation  of  their  coming. 

Geoffrey,  leading  his  wife  into  the  hall,  pauses  beneath  a 
central  swinging  lamp,  to  examine  her  critically.  The  foot- 
man who  is  in  attendance  on  them  has  gone  on  before  to  an- 
nounce their  coming ;  they  are  therefore  for  the  moment 
alone. 

Mona  is  looking  lovely,  a  little  pale  perhaps  from  some  nat- 
ural agitation,  but  her  pallor  only  adds  to  the  lustre  of  her 
great  blue  eyes  and  lends  an  additional  sweetness  to  the  ripe- 
ness of  her  lips.  Her  hair  is  a  little  loose,  but  eminently  be- 
coming, and  altogether  she  looks  as  like  an  exquisite  painting 
as  one  can  conceive. 

"  Take  off  your  hat,"  says  Geoffrey,  in  a  tone  that  g^laddens 
her  heart,  so  full  it  is  of  love  and  admiration ;  and,  having 
removed  her  hat,  she  follows  him  through  halls  and  one  or  two 
anterooms  until  they  reach  the  library,  into  which  the  man 
ushers  them. 

It  is  a  very  pretty  room,  filled  with  a  subdued  light,  and 
with  a  blazing  fire  at  one  end.  All  bespeaks  warmth,  and 
home,  and  comfort,  but  to  Mona  in  her  present  state  it  is  deso- 


148  MRS.  GEOFFREY. 

lation  itself.  The  three  occupants  of  the  room  rise  as  she 
enters,  and  Mona's  heart  dies  within  her  as  a  very  tall  statu- 
esque woman,  drawing  herself  up  languidly  from  a  lounging- 
chair,  comes  leisurely  up  to  her.  There  is  no  welcoming  haste 
in  her  movements,  no  gracious  smile,  for  which  her  guest  is 
thirsting,  upon  her  thin  lips. 

She  is  dressed  in  black  velvet,  and  has  a  cap  of  richest  old 
luce  upon  her  head.  To  the  quick  sensibilities  of  the  Irish 
girl  it  becomes  known  without  a  word  that  she  is  not  to  look 
for  love  from  this  stately  woman,  with  her  keen  scrutinizing 
glance  and  cold  unsmiling  lips. 

A  choking  sensation,  rising  from  her  heart,  almost  stops 
Mona's  breath ;  her  mouth  feels  parched  and  dry ;  her  eyes 
widen.  A  sudden  fear  oppresses  her.  How  is  it  going  to  be 
in  all  the  future  ?  Is  Geoffrey's — her  own  husband's — mother 
to  be  her  enemy  ? 

Lady  Rodney  holds  out  her  hand,  and  Mona  lays  hers 
within  it. 

"  So  glad  you  have  come,"  says  Lady  Rodney,  in  a  tone 
that  belies  her  words,  and  in  a  sweet  silvery  voice  that  chills 
the  heart  of  her  listener.  "  We  hardly  thought  we  should 
see  you  so  soon,  the  trains  here  are  so  unpunctual.  I  hope 
the  carriage  was  in  time  ?" 

She  waits  apparently  for  an  answer,  at  which  Mona  grows 
desperate.  For  in  reality  she  has  heard  not  one  word  of  the 
labored  speech  made  to  her,  and  is  too  frightened  to  think  of 
anything  to  say  except  the  unfortunate  lesson  learned  in  the 
carriage  and  repeated  secretly  so  often  since.  She  looks 
round  helplessly  for  Geoffrey ;  but  he  is  laughing  with  his 
brother,  Captain  Rodney,  whom  he  has  not  seen  since  his  re- 
turn from  India,  and  so  Mona,  cast  upon  her  own  resources, 


It  was  rather  better  than  I  anticipated,  thank  you,"  not 
in  the  haughty  tone  adopted  by  her  half  an  hour  ago,  but  in 
an  unnerved  and  frightened  whisper. 

At  this  remarkable  answer  to  a  very  ordinary  and  polite 
question,  Lady  Rodney  stares  at  Mona  for  a  moment,  and 
then  turns  abruptly  away  to  greet  Geoffrey.  Whereupon 
Captain  Rodney,  coming  forward,  tells  Mona  he  is  glad  to  see 
her,  kindly  but  carelessly ;  and  then  a  young  man,  who  has 
been  standing  up  to  this  silently  upon  the  hearth-rug,  advances, 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  149 

and  takes  Mona's  hand  in  a  warm  clasp,  and  looks  down  upon 
her  with  very  friendly  eyes. 

At  his  touch,  at  his  glance,  the  first  sense  of  comfort  Mona 
has  felt  since  her  entry  into  the  room  falls  upon  her.  This 
man,  at  least,  is  surely  of  the  same  kith  and  kin  as  Geoffrey, 
and  to  him  her  heart  opens  gladly,  gratefully. 

He  has  heard  the  remarkable  speech  made  to  his  mother, 
and  has  drawn  his  own  conclusions  therefrom.  "  Geoffrey 
has  been  coaching  the  poor  little  soul,  and  putting  absurd 
words  into  her  mouth,  with — as  is  usual  in  all  such  cases — a 
very  brilliant  result."  So  he  tells  himself,  and  is,  as  we 
know,  close  to  the  truth. 

He  tells  Mona  she  is  very  welcome,  and,  still  holding  her 
hand,  draws  her  over  to  the  fire,  and  moves  a  big  arm-chair 
in  front  of  it,  in  which  ho  ensconces  her,  bidding  her  warm 
herself,  and  make  herself  (as  he  says  with  a  kindly  smile  that 
has  still  kinder  meaning  in  it)  "  quite  at  home." 

Then  he  stoops  and  unfastens  her  sealskin  jacket,  and  takes 
it  off  her,  and  in  fact  pays  her  all  the  little  attentions  that  lie 
in  his  power. 

"  You  are  Sir  Nicholas  ?"  questions  she  at  last,  gaining 
courage  to  speak,  and  raising  her  eyes  to  his  full  of  entreaty, 
and  just  a  touch  of  that  pathos  that  seems  of  right  to  belong 
to  the  eyes  of  all  Irishwomen. 

"  Yes,"  returns  he,  with  a  smile.  "  I  am  Nicholas."  He 
ignores  the  formal  title.  "  Geoffrey,  I  expect,  spoke  to  you 
of  me  as  '  old  Nick ;'  he  has  never  called  me  anything  else 
since  we  were  boys." 

"  He  has  often  called  you  that ;  but," — shyly, — "  now 
that  I  have  seen  you,  I  don't  think  the  name  suits  you  a 
bit." 

Sir  Nicholas  is  quite  pleased.  There  is  a  sort  of  uncon- 
scious flattery  in  the  gravity  of  her  tone  and  expression  that 
amuses  almost  as  much  as  it  pleases  him.  What  a  funny 
child  she  is  1  and  how  unspeakably  lovely  1  Will  Doatie  like 
her? 

But  there  is  yet  another  introductioa  to  be  gone  through. 
From  the  doorway  Violet  Mansergh  comes  up  to  Geoffrey, 
clad  in  some  soft  pale  shimmering  stuff,  and  holds  cat  to  hia; 
her  hand. 

"  What  a  time  you  have   been  away  1"  she   says,  with  a 
18* 


150  MRS.  GEOFFREY. 

pretty,  slow  smile,  that  has  not  a  particle  of  embarrassment  or 
consciousness  in  it,  thouj^h  she  is  quite  aware  that  Jack  llod- 
ney  is  watching  her  closely.  Perhaps,  indeed,  she  is  secretly 
amused  at  his  severe  scrutiny. 

"  You  will  introduce  me  to  your  wife  ?"  she  asks,  after  a 
few  minutes,  in  her  even,  trainante  voice,  and  is  then  taksn 
up  to  the  big  arm-chair  before  the  fire,  and  is  made  known  to 
Mona. 

"  Dinner  will  be  ready  in  a  few  minutes :  of  course  wo 
shall  excuse  your  dressing  to-night,"  says  Lady  Rodney,  ad- 
dressing her  son  far  more  than  Mona,  though  the  words  pre- 
sumably are  meant  for  her.  Whereupon  Mona,  rising  from 
her  chair  with  a  sigh  of  relief,  follows  Geoffrey  out  of  the 
room  and  up  stairs. 

"Well?"  says  Sir  Nicholas,  as  a  deadly  silence  continues 
for  some  time  after  their  departure,  "  what  do  you  think  of 
her?" 

"  She  is  painfully  deficient ;  positively  without  brains,"  says 
Lady  Rodney,  with  conviction.  "  What  was  the  answer  she 
made  me  when  I  asked  about  the  carriage  ?  Something  utterly 
outside  the  mark." 

"  She  is  not  brainless ;  she  was  only  frightened.  It  cer- 
tainly was  an  ordeal  coming  to  a  house  for  the  first  time  to  be, 
in  effect,  stared  at.     And  she  is  very  young." 

"  And  perhaps  unused  to  society,"  puts  in  Violet,  mildly. 
As  she  speaks  she  picks  up  a  tiny  feather  that  has  clung  to 
her  gown,  and  lightly  blows  it  away  from  her  into  the  air. 

"  She  looked  awfully  cut  up,  poor  little  thing,"  says  Jack, 
kindly.  "  You  were  the  only  one  she  opened  her  mind  to, 
Nick.  What  did  she  say  ?  Did  she  betray  the  ravings  of  a 
lunatic  or  the  inanities  of  a  fool  ?" 

"  Neither." 

"  Then,  no  doubt,  she  heaped  upon  you  priceless  gems  of 
[rish  wit  in  her  mother-tongue?" 

"  She  said  very  little ;  but  she  looks  good  and  true.  After 
all,  Geoffrey  might  have  done  worse." 

"  Worse !"  repeats  his  mother,  in  a  withering  tone.  In 
this  mood  she  is  not  nice,  and  a  very  little  of  her  suffices. 

"  She  is  decidedly  good  to  look  at,  at  all  events,"  says 
Nicholas,  shifting  ground.     "  Don't  you  think  so,  Violet?" 

"  I  think  she  is  the  loveliest  woman  I  ever  saw,"  returns 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  151 

Miss  Mansergh,  quietly,  without  enthusiasm,  but  with  deci- 
Biou.  If  cold,  she  is  just,  and  above  the  pettiness  of  disliking 
a  woman  because  she  may  be  counted  more  worthy  of  admi- 
ration than  herself. 

"  I  am  glad  you  are  all  pleased,"  says  Lady  Rodney,  in  a 
peculiar  tone  ;  and  then  the  gong  sounds,  and  they  all  rise,  as 
Geoffrey  and  Mona  once  more  make  their  appearance.  Sir 
Nicholas  gives  his  arm  to  Mona,  and  so  begins  her  first  even- 
ing at  the  Towers. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 


HOW    MONA   RISES   BETIMES — AND    HOW   SHE   ENCOUNTEfia 
A   STRANGER   AMIDST   THE   MORNING   DEWS. 

All  through  the  night  Mona  scarcely  shuts  her  eyes,  so 
full  is  her  mind  of  troubled  and  perplexing  thoughts.  At  last 
her  brain  grows  so  tired  that  she  cannot  pursue  any  subject  to 
its  end,  so  she  lies  silently  awake,  watching  for  the  coming  of 
the  tardy  dawn. 

At  last,  as  she  grows  weary  for  wishing  for  it, — 

"  Morning  fair 
Comes  forth  with  pilgrim  steps  in  amice  gray ;" 

and  light  breaks  through  shutter  and  curtain,  and  objects  pale 
and  ghostly  at  first  soon  grow  large  and  intimate. 

"  Brown  night  retires ;  young  day  pours  in  apace, 
And  opens  all  a  lawny  prospect  wide." 

Naturally  an  early  riser,  Mona  slips  noiselessly  from  her  bed, 
lest  she  shall  wake  Geoffrey, — who  is  still  sleeping  the  sleep 
of  the  just, — and,  going  into  his  dressing-room,  jumps  into  hia 
bath,  leaving  hers  for  him. 

The  general  bath-room  is  to  Geoffrey  an  abomination : 
nothing  would  induce  him  to  enter  it.  His  own  bath,  and 
nothing  but  his  own  bath,  can  content  him.  To  have  to  make 
uncomfortable  haste  to  be  first,  or  else  to  await  shivering  tho 


152  MRS.  QEOFFRET. 

good  pleasuro  of  your  next-door  neighbor,  is,  according  to  Mi 
Rodney,  a  hardship  too  great  for  human  endurance. 

Having  accomplished  her  toilet  without  the  assistance  of  a 
maid  (who  would  bore  her  to  death),  and  without  disturbing 
her  lord  and  master,  she  leaves  her  room,  and,  softly  descend- 
ing the  stairs,  bids  the  maid  in  the  hall  below  a  "  fair  good- 
morning,"  and  bears  no  malice  in  that  the  said  maid  is  so  ap- 
palled by  her  unexpected  appearance  that  she  forgets  to  give 
her  back  her  greeting.  She  bestows  her  usual  bonnie  smile 
upon  this  stricken  girl,  and  then,  passing  by  her,  opens  the  hall 
door,  and  sallies  forth  into  the  gray  and  early  morning. 

"  The  first  low  fluttering  breath  of  waking  day 
Stirs  the  wide  air.     Thin  clouds  of  pearly  haze 
Float  slowly  o'er  the  sky,  to  meet  the  rays 
Of  the  unrisen  sun." 

But  which  way  to  go  ?  To  Mona  all  round  is  an  undiscovered 
country,  and  for  that  reason  possesses  an  indescribable  charm. 
Finally,  she  goes  up  the  avenue,  beneath  the  gaunt  and  leafless 
elms,  and  midway,  seeing  a  small  path  that  leads  she  knows  not 
whither,  she  turns  aside  and  follows  it,  until  she  loses  herself 
in  the  lonely  wood. 

The  air  is  full  of  death  and  desolation.  It  is  cold  and  raw, 
and  no  vestige  of  vegetation  is  anywhere.  In  the  distance, 
indeed,  she  can  see  some  fir-trees  that  alone  show  green  amidst 
a  wilderness  of  brown,  and  are  hailed  with  rapture  by  the  eye, 
tired  of  the  gray  and  sullen  monotony.  But  except  for  these 
all  is  dull  and  unfruitful. 

Still,  Mona  is  happy :  the  walk  has  done  her  good,  andl 
warmed  her  blood,  and  brought  a  color,  soft  and  rich  as  car- 
mine, to  her  cheeks.  She  has  followed  the  winding  path  for 
about  an  hour,  briskly,  and  with  a  sense  of  hien-etre  that  only 
the  young  and  godly  can  know,  when  suddenly  she  becomes 
aware  that  some  one  is  following  her. 

She  turns  slowly,  and  finds  her  fellow-pedestrian  is  a  young 
man  clad  in  a  suit  of  very  impossible  tweed :  she  blushes 
hotly,  not  because  he  is  a  young  man,  but  because  she  has  no 
hat  on  her  head,  having  covered  her  somewhat  riotous  hair 
with  a  crimson  silk  handkerchief  she  had  found  in  Geoffrey's 
room,  just  before  starting.  It  covers  her  head  completely,  and 
is  tied  under  the  chin  Connemara  fashion,  letting  only  a  few 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  153 

little  love-locks  be  seen,  that  roam  across  her  forehead,  in  spite 
of  all  injunctions  to  the  contrary. 

Perhaps,  could  she  only  know  how  charmingly  becoming 
this  style  of  head-dress  is  to  her  flower-like  face,  she  would 
not  have  blushed  at  all. 

The  stranger  is  advancing  slowly :  he  is  swarthy,  and  cer- 
tainly not  prepossessing.  His  hair  is  of  that  shade  and  tex- 
ture that  suggests  unpleasantly  the  negro.  His  lips  are  a 
trifle  thick,  his  eyes  like  sloes.  There  is,  too,  an  expression 
of  low  cunning  in  these  latter  features  that  breeds  distrust  in 
the  beholder. 

He  does  not  see  Mona  until  he  is  within  a  yard  of  her,  a 
thick  bush  standing  between  him  and  her.  Being  always  a 
creature  of  impulse,  she  has  stood  still  on  seeing  him,  and  is 
lost  in  wonder  as  to  who  he  can  be.  One  hand  is  lifting  up 
her  gown,  the  other  is  holding  together  the  large  soft  white 
fleecy  shawl  that  covers  her  shoulders,  and  is  therefore  neces- 
sarily laid  upon  her  breast.  Her  attitude  is  as  picturesque  as 
it  is  adorable. 

The  stranger,  having  come  quite  near,  raises  his  head, 
and,  seeing  her,  starts  naturally,  and  also  comes  to  a  stand- 
still. For  a  full  half-minute  he  stares  unpardonably,  and  then 
lifts  his  hat.  Mona — who,  as  we  have  seen,  is  not  great  in 
emergencies — fails  to  notice  the  rudeness,  in  her  own  em- 
barrassment, and  therefore  bows  politely  in  return  to  his  salu- 
tation. 

She  is  still  wondering  vaguely  who  he  can  be,  when  he 
breaks  the  silence. 

"  It  is  an  early  hour  to  be  astir,"  he  says,  awkwardly ;  then, 
finding  she  makes  no  response,  he  goes  on,  still  more  awk- 
wardly. "  Can  you  tell  me  if  this  path  will  lead  me  to  the 
road  for  Plumston  ?" 

Plumston  is  a  village  near.  The  first  remark  may  sound 
too  free  and  easy,  but  his  manner  is  decorous  in  the  extreme. 
In  spite  of  the  fact  that  her  pretty  head  is  covered  with  a  silk 
handkerchief  in  lieu  of  a  hat,  he  acknowledges  her  "  within  the 
line,"  and  knows  instinctively  that  her  clothes,  though  sim- 
plicity itself,  are  perfect  both  in  tint  and  in  texture. 

He  groans  within  him  that  he  cannot  think  of  any  speech 
bordering  on  the  Grandisonian,  that  may  be  politely  addressed 
to  this  sylvan  nymph ;  but  all  such  speeches  fail  him.     Who 


154  MRS.  QEOFFJIEY. 

can  she  be  ?  Were  ever  eyes  so  liquid  before,  or  lips  so  full 
of  feeling? 

"  I  am  sorry  I  can  tell  you  nothing,"  says  Mona,  shaking 
her  head.  "  I  was  never  in  this  wood  before  ;  I  know  nothing 
of  it." 

"  /  should  know  all  about  it,"  says  the  stranger,  with  a 
curious  contraction  of  the  muscles  of  his  face,  which  it  may 
be  he  means  for  a  smile.  "  In  time  I  shall  no  doubt,  but  at 
present  it  is  a  sealed  book  to  me.  But  the  future  will  break 
all  seals  as  far  at  least  as  Kodney  Towers  is  concerned." 

Then  she  knows  she  is  speaking  to  "  the  Australian"  (as 
she  has  heard  him  called),  and,  lifting  her  head,  examines  his 
face  with  renewed  interest.  Not  a  pleasant  face  by  any  means, 
yet  not  altogether  bad,  as  she  tells  herself  in  the  generosity 
of  her  heart. 

"  I  am  a  stranger;  I  know  nothing;,"  she  says  again,  hardly 
knowing  what  to  say,  and  moving  a  little  as  though  she  would 
depart. 

"  I  suppose  I  am  speaking  to  Mrs.  Rodney,"  he  says,  guess- 
ing wildly,  yet  correctly  as  it  turns  out,  having  heard,  as  all 
the  country  has  besides,  that  the  bride  is  expected  at  the 
Towers  during  the  week.  He  has  never  all  this  time  removed 
his  black  eyes  from  the  perfect  face  before  him  with  its  crim- 
son head-gear.  He  is  as  one  fascinated,  who  cannot  yet  ex- 
plain where  the  fascination  lies. 

"  Yes,  I  am  Mrs.  Rodney,"  says  Mona,  feeling  some  pride 
in  her  wedded  name,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  two  whole  months 
have  gone  by  since  first  she  heard  it.  At  this  question,  though, 
as  coming  from  a  stranger,  she  recoils  a  little  within  herself, 
and  gathers  up  her  gown  more  closely  with  a  gesture  impossi- 
ble to  misunderstand. 

"  You  haven't  asked  me  who  I  am,"  says  the  stranger,  as 
though  eager  to  detain  her  at  any  cost,  still  without  a  smile, 
and  always  with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  her  face.  It  seems  as 
though  he  positively  cannot  remove  them,  so  riveted  are  they. 

"No;"  she  might  in  all  truth  have  added,  "because  I  did 
not  care  to  know,"  but  what  she  does  say  (for  incivility  even 
to  an  enemy  would  be  impossible  to  Mona)  is,  "  I  thought 
perhaps  you  might  not  like  it." 

Even  this  is  a  small,  if  unconscious,  cut,  considering  what 
objectionable  curiosity  he  evinced  about  her  name.     But  the 


MRS.  OEOFFRET.  155 

Australian  is  above  small  cuts,  for  the  good  reason  that  he 
Beldom  sees  them. 

"  I  am  Paul  Rodney,"  he  now  volunteers, — "  your  husband's 
cousin,  you  know.  I  suppose,"  with  a  darkening  of  his  whole 
face,  "  now  I  have  told  you  who  I  am,  it  will  not  sweeten  your 
liking  for  me." 

"  I  have  heard  of  you,"  says  Mona,  quietly.  Then,  point- 
ing towards  that  part  of  the  wood  whither  he  would  go,  she 
says,  coldly,  "  I  regret  I  cannot  tell  you  where  this  path  leads 
to.     Good-morning." 

With  this  she  inclines  her  head,  and  without  another  word 
goes  back  by  the  way  she  has  come. 

Paul  Rodney,  standing  where  she  has  left  him,  watches  her 
retreating  figure  until  it  is  quite  out  of  sight,  and  the  last 
gleam  of  the  crimson  silk  handkerchief  is  lost  in  the  distance, 
with  a  curious  expression  upon  his  face.  It  is  an  odd  mixture 
of  envy,  hatred,  and  admiration.  If  there  is  a  man  on  earth 
he  hates  with  a  cordial  hatred,  it  is  Geoffrey  Rodney,  who  at 
no  time  has  taken  the  trouble  to  be  even  outwardly  civil  to 
him.  And  to  think  this  peerless  creature  is  his  wife !  For 
thus  he  designates  Mona. — the  Australian  being  a  man  who 
would  be  almost  sure  to  call  the  woman  he  admired  a  "  peer- 
less creature." 

When  she  is  quite  gone,  he  pulls  himself  together  with  a 
jerk,  draws  a  heavy  sigh,  and,  thrusting  his  hands  deep  into 
his  pockets,  continues  his  walk. 

At  breakfast  Mona  betrays  the  fact  that  she  has  met  Paul 
Rodney  during  her  morning  ramble,  and  tells  all  that  passed 
between  him  and  her, — on  being  closely  questioned, — which 
news  has  the  effect  of  bringing  a  cloud  to  the  brow  of  Sir 
Nicholas  and  a  frown  to  that  of  his  mother. 

"  Such  presumption,  walking  in  our  wood  without  permis- 
sion," she  says,  haughtily. 

"  My  dear  mother,  you  forget  the  path  leading  from  the 
southern  gate  to  Plumston  Road  has  been  open  to  the  public 
for  generations.     He  was  at  perfect  liberty  to  walk  there." 

"  Nevertheless,  it  is  in  very  bad  taste  his  taking  advantage 
of  that  absurd  permission,  considering  how  he  is  circumstanced 
with  regard  to  us,"  says  Lady  Rodney.  "  You  wouldn't  do 
it  yourself,  Nicholas,  though  you  find  excuses  for  him." 


156  MRS.  QEOFFREY. 

A  very  faint  smile  crosses  Sir  Nicholas's  lips. 

"  Oh,  no,  I  shouldn't,"  he  says,  gently  ;  and  then  the  sub. 
ject  drops. 

And  here  perhaps  it  will  bd  as  well  to  explain  the  trouble 
that  at  this  time  weighs  heavily  upon  the  llodney  family. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 


HOW  OLD  SIR  GEORGE  HATED  HIS  FIRST-BORN — AND  HOW 
HE  MADE  HIS  WILL — AND  HOW  THE  EARTH  SWAL- 
LOWED   IT. 

Now,  old  Sir  George  Rodney,  grandfather  of  the  present 
baronet,  had  two  sons,  Geoffrey  and  George.  Now,  Geoffrey 
he  loved,  but  George  he  hated.  And  so  great  by  years  did 
this  hatred  grow  that  afler  a  bit  he  sought  how  he  should 
leave  the  property  away  from  his  eldest-born,  who  was  George, 
and  leave  it  to  Geoffrey,  the  younger, — which  was  hardly  fair  ; 
for  "  what,"  says  Aristotle,  "  is  justice  ? — to  give  every  man 
his  own."  And  surely  George,  being  the  elder,  had  first 
claim.  The  entail  having  been  broken  during  the  last  genera- 
tion, he  found  this  easy  to  accomplish ;  and  so  after  many 
days  he  made  a  will,  by  which  the  younger  son  inherited  all, 
to  the  exclusion  of  the  elder. 

But  before  this,  when  things  had  gone  too  far  between 
father  and  son,  and  harsh  words  never  to  be  forgotten  on 
either  side  had  been  uttered,  George,  unable  to  bear  longer 
the  ignominy  of  his  position  (being  of  a  wild  and  passionate 
yet  withal  generous  disposition),  left  his  home,  to  seek  another 
and  happier  one  in  foreign  lands, 

Some  said  he  had  gone  to  India,  others  to  Van  Diemen'a 
Land,  but  in  truth  none  knew,  or  cared  to  know,  save  Elspeth, 
the  old  nurse,  who  had  tended  him  and  his  father  before  him, 
and  who  in  her  heart  nourished  for  him  an  undying  affection. 

There  were  those  who  said  she  clung  to  him  because  of  his 
wonderful  likeness  to  the  picture  of  his  grandfather  in  the 
south  gallery,  Sir  Launcelot  by  name,  who,  in  choicest  rufl^ea 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  157 

and  most  elaborate  queue,  smiled  gayly  down  upon  the  passers- 
by- 

For  this  master  of  the  Towers  (so  the  story  ran)  Elspeth, 
in  her  younger  days,  had  borne  a  love  too  deep  for  words, 
when  she  herself  was  soft  and  rosy-cheeked,  with  a  heart  as 
tender  and  romantic  as  her  eyes  were  blue,  and  when  her  lips 
were  for  all  the  world  like  "  cherries  ripe." 

But  this,  it  may  be,  was  all  village  slander,  and  was  never 
borne  out  by  anythiug.  And  Elspeth  had  married  the  gar- 
dener's son,  and  Sir  Launcelot  had  married  an  earl's  daughter; 
and  when  the  first  baby  was  born  at  the  "  big  house,"  Elspeth 
came  to  the  Towers  and  nursed  him  as  she  would  have  nursed 
her  own  little  bairn,  but  that  Death,  "  dear,  beauteous  Death, 
the  jewel  of  the  just,  shining  nowhere  but  in  the  dark,"  sought 
and  claimed  her  own  little  one  two  days  after  its  birth. 

After  that  she  had  never  again  left  the  family,  serving  it 
faithfully  while  strength  stayed  with  her,  knowing  all  its 
secrets  and  all  its  old  legends,  and  many  things,  it  may  be, 
that  the  child  she  nursed  at  her  bosom  never  knew. 

For  him — strange  as  it  may  seem — she  had  ever  but  little 
love.  But  when  he  married,  and  George,  the  eldest  boy,  was 
given  into  her  arms,  and  as  he  grew  and  developed,  and 
showed  himself  day  by  day  to  be  the  very  prototype  of  his 
grandsire,  she  "  took  to  him,"  as  the  servants  said,  and  clung 
to  him — and  afterwards  to  his  memory — until  her  dying  day. 

When  the  dark,  wayward,  handsome  young  man  went  away, 
her  heart  went  with  him,  and  she  alone  perhaps  knew  any- 
thing of  him  after  his  departure.  To  his  father  his  absence 
was  a  relief;  he  did  not  disguise  it;  and  to  his  brother  (who 
had  married,  and  had  then  three  children,  and  had  of  late 
years  grown  estranged  from  him)  the  loss  was  not  great.  Nor 
did  the  young  madam, — as  she  was  sailed, — the  mother  of  our 
{)resent  friends,  lose  any  opportunity  of  fostering  and  keeping 
alive  the  ill  will  and  rancor  that  existed  for  him  in  his  father's 
heart. 

So  the  grudge,  being  well  watered,  grew  and  flourished,  and 
at  last,  as  I  said,  the  old  man  made  a  will  one  night,  in  the 

f)re8ence  of  the  gardener  and  his  nephew,  who  witnessed  it, 
eaving  all  he  possessed — save  the  title  and  some  outside  prop- 
erty, which  he  did  not  possess — to  his  younger  son.  And, 
having  made  this  will,  he  wont  to  his  bed,  and  in  the  cold 

11 


158  MRS.  GEOFFREY. 

night,  all  alone,  he  died  there,  and  was  found  in  the  morning 
stiff  and  stark,  with  the  gay  spring  sunshine  pouring  in  upon 
him,  while  the  birds  sang  without  as  though  to  mock  death's 
power,  and  the  flowers  broke  slowly  into  life. 

But  when  they  came  to  look  for  the  will,  lo !  it  was  no- 
where to  be  found.  Each  drawer  and  desk  and  cabinet  was 
searched  to  no  avail.  Never  did  the  lost  document  come  to 
light. 

Day  after  day  they  sought  in  vain  ;  but  there  came  a  morn- 
ing when  news  of  the  lost  George's  demise  came  to  them  from 
Australia,  and  then  the  search  grew  languid  and  the  will  was 
forgotten.  And  they  hardly  took  pains  even  to  corroborate 
the  tidings  sent  them  from  that  far-off  land,  but,  accepting  the 
rightful  heir's  death  as  a  happy  fact,  ascended  the  throne,  and 
reigned  peacefully  for  many  years. 

And  when  Sir  George  died,  Sir  Nicholas,  as  we  know,  gov- 
erned in  his  stead,  and  "  all  went  merry  as  a  marriage-bell," 
until  a  small  cloud  came  out  of  the  south,  and  grew  and  grew 
and  waxed  each  day  stronger,  until  it  covered  all  the  land. 

For  again  news  came  from  Australia  that  the  former  tidings 
of  George  llodney's  death  had  been  flilsc ;  that  he  had  only 
died  a  twelvemonth  since  ;  that  he  had  married  almost  on  first 
going  out,  and  that  his  son  was  coming  home  to  dispute  Sir 
Nicholas's  right  to  house  and  home  and  title. 

And  now  where  was  the  missing  will  ?  Almost  all  the  old 
servants  were  dead  or  scattered.  The  gardener  and  his 
nephew  were  no  more ;  even  old  Elspeth  was  lying  at  rest  in 
the  cold  church-yard,  having  ceased  long  since  to  be  even 
food  for  worms.  Only  her  second  nephew — who  had  lived 
with  her  for  years  in  the  little  cottage  provided  for  her  by  the 
Rodneys,  when  she  was  too  old  and  infirm  to  do  aught  but  sit 
and  dream  of  days  gone  by — was  alive,  and  he,  too,  had  gone 
to  Australia  on  her  death,  and  had  not  been  heard  of  since. 

It  was  all  terrible, — this  young  man  coming,  and  the 
thought  that,  no  matter  how  they  might  try  to  disbelieve  ia 
his  story,  still  it  might  be  true. 

And  then  the  young  man  came,  and  they  saw  that  he  was 
very  dark,  and  very  morose,  and  very  objectionable.  But  he 
seemed  to  have  more  money  than  he  quite  knew  what  to  do 
with  ;  and  when  he  decided  on  taking  a  shooting-box  that  then 
was  vacant  quite  close  to  the  Towers,  their  indignation  knew  no 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  159 

bounds.  And  certainly  it  was  in  execrable  taste,  considering 
he  came  there  with  the  avowed  determination  to  supplant,  aa 
lord  and  master,  the  present  owner  of  the  Towers,  the  turrets 
of  which  he  could  see  from  his  dining-room  windows. 

But,  as  he  had  money,  some  of  the  county,  after  the  first 
spasm,  rather  acknowledged  him,  as  at  least  a  cousin,  if  not  the 
cousin.  And  because  he  was  somewhat  unusual,  and  there- 
fore amusing,  and  decidedly  liberal,  and  because  there  was  no 
disgrace  attaching  to  him,  and  no  actual  reason  why  he  should 
not  be  received,  many  houses  opened  their  doors  to  him.  All 
which  was  bitter  as  wormwood  to  Lady  Rodney. 

Indeed,  Sir  Nicholas  himself  had  been  the  very  first  to  set 
the  example.  In  his  curious,  silent,  methodical  fashion,  he 
had  declared  to  his  mother  (who  literally  detested  the  very 
mention  of  the  Australian's  name,  as  she  called  him,  looking 
upon  him  as  a  clean-born  Indian  might  look  upon  a  Pariah) 
his  intention  of  being  civil  to  him  all  round,  as  he  was  his 
father's  brother's  child ;  and  as  he  had  committed  no  sin,  be- 
yond trying  to  gain  his  own  rights,  he  would  have  him  recog- 
nized, and  treated  by  every  one,  if  not  with  cordiality,  at  least 
with  common  politeness. 

But  yet  there  were  those  who  did  not  acknowledge  the  new- 
comer, in  spite  of  his  wealth  and  the  romantic  story  attaching 
to  him,  and  the  possibility  that  he  might  yet  be  proved  to  be 
the  rightful  baronet  and  the  possessor  of  all  the  goodly  lands 
that  spread  for  miles  around.  Of  these  the  Duchess  of  Lau- 
derdale was  one  ;  but  then  she  was  always  slow  to  acknowledge 
new  blood,  or  people  unhappy  enough  to  have  a  history.  And 
Lady  Lilias  Eaton  was  another ;  but  she  was  a  young  and 
earnest  disciple  of  aestheticism,  and  gave  little  thought  to 
anything  save  Gothic  windows,  lilies,  and  unleavened  bread. 
There  were  also  many  of  the  older  families  who  looked  askance 
upon  Paul  Rodney,  or  looked  through  him,  when  brought  into 
contact  with  him,  in  defiance  of  Sir  Nicholas's  support,  which 
perhaps  was  given  to  this  undesirable  cousin  more  in  pride 
than  generosity. 

And  so  matters  stood  when  Mona  came  to  the  Towers. 


ICO  MRS.  GEOFFREY. 


CHAPTER   XIX. 

HOW  FATE  DEALS  HARSHLY  WITH  MONA,  AND  HOW  SHK 
DROOPS  —  AS  MIGHT  A  FLOWER BENEATH  ITS  UN- 
KINDLY TOUCH. 

To  gain  Lady  Rodney's  friendship  is  a  more  difficult  thing 
than  Mona  in  her  ignorance  had  imagined,  and  she  is  deter- 
mined to  be  ice  itself  to  her  poor  little  guest.  As  for  her  love, 
when  first  Mona's  eyes  lit  upon  her  she  abandoned  all  hope  of 
ever  gaining  that. 

With  Captain  Rodney  and  Sir  Nicholas  she  makes  way  at 
once,  though  she  is  a  little  nervous  and  depressed,  and  not 
altogether  like  her  usual  gay  insouciant  self.  She  is  thrown 
back  upon  herself,  and,  like  a  timid  snail,  recoils  sadly  into 
her  shell. 

Yet  Nature,  sooner  or  later,  must  assert  itself;  and  after  a 
day  or  two  a  ringing  laugh  breaks  from  her,  or  a  merry  jest, 
that  does  Geoffrey's  heart  good,  and  brings  an  answering  laugh 
and  jest  to  the  lips  of  her  new  brothers. 

Of  Violet  Mansergh — who  is  still  at  the  Towers,  her  father 
being  abroad  and  Lady  Rodney  very  desirous  of  having  her 
with  her — she  knows  little.  Violet  is  cold,  but  quite  civil,  aa 
Englishwomen  will  be  until  they  know  you.  She  is,  besides, 
somewhat  prejudiced  against  Mona,  because — being  honest 
herself — she  has  believed  all  the  false  tales  told  her  of  the 
Irish  girl.  These  silly  tales,  in  spite  of  her  belief  in  her  own 
independence  of  thought,  weigh  upon  her ;  and  so  she  draws 
back  from  Mona,  and  speaks  little  to  her,  and  then  of  only 
ordinary  topics,  while  the  poor  child  is  pining  for  some  woman 
to  whom  she  can  open  her  mind  and  whom  she  may  count  as 
an  honest  friend.  "  For  talking  with  a  friend,"  says  Addison, 
"  is  nothing  else  but  thinking  aloud." 

Of  Lady  Rodney's  studied  dislike  Mona's  sensitive  nature 
could  not  long  remain  in  ignorance ;  yet,  having  a  clear  con- 
science, and  not  knowing  in  what  she  has  offended, — save  in 
cleaving  to  the  man  she  loved,  even  to  the  extent  of  marrying 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  KJl 

him, — she  keeps  a  calm  countenance,  and  bravely  waits  what 
time  may  bring. 

To  quarrel  with  GeoflPrey's  people  will  be  to  cause  Geoffrey 
silent  but  acute  regret,  and  so  for  his  sake,  to  save  him  pain, 
she  quietly  bears  many  things,  and  waits  for  better  days, 
What  is  a  month  or  two  of  misery,  she  tells  herself,  but  » 
sigh  amidst  the  pleasures  of  one's  life?  Yet  I  think  it  is  the 
indomitable  pluck  and  endurance  of  her  race  that  carries  her 
successfully  through  all  her  troubles. 

Still,  she  grows  a  little  pale  and  dispirited  after  a  while, 
for 

"  Care,  when  it  once  is  entered  in  the  breast, 
Will  have  the  whole  possession  ere  it  rest." 

One  day,  speaking  of  Sir  Nicholas  to  Lady  Rodney,  she 
had — as  was  most  natural — called  him  "  Nicholas."  But  she 
had  been  cast  back  upon  herself  and  humiliated  to  the  earth 
by  his  mother's  look  of  cold  disapproval  and  the  emphasis  she 
had  laid  upon  the  "  Sir"  Nicholas  when  next  speaking  of  him. 

This  had  widened  the  breach  more  than  all  the  rest,  though 
Nicholas  himself,  being  quite  fascinated  by  her,  tries  earnestly 
to  make  her  happy  and  at  home  with  him. 

About  a  week  after  her  arrival — she  having  expressed  her 
admiration  of  ferns  the  night  before — he  draws  her  hand 
through  his  arm  and  takes  her  to  his  own  special  sanctum, — 
off  which  a  fernery  has  been  thrown,  he  being  an  enthusiastic 
grower  of  that  lovely  weed. 

Mona  is  enchanted  with  the  many  varieties  she  sees  that 
are  unknown  to  her,  and,  being  very  much  not  of  the  world, 
is  not  ashamed  to  express  her  delight.  Looking  carefully 
through  all,  she  yet  notices  that  a  tiny  one,  dear  to  her,  be- 
cause common  to  her  sweet  Killarney,  is  not  among  his  col- 
lection. 

She  tells  him  of  it,  and  he  is  deeply  interested ;  and  when 
she  proposes  to  write  and  get  him  one  from  her  native  soil,  he 
is  as  glad  as  a  school-boy  promised  a  new  bat,  and  her  con- 
quest of  Sir  Nicholas  is  complete. 

And  indeed  the  thought  of  this  distant  fern  is  as  dear  to 
Mona  as  to  him.     For  to  her  comes  a  rush  of  tender  joy,  as 
she  tells  herself  she  may  soon  be  growing  in  this  alien  earth 
a  green  plant  torn  from  her  fatherland. 
I  14* 


162  MRS.  GEOFFREY. 

"  But  I  hope  you  will  not  be  disappointed  when  you  see  it," 
ehe  says,  gently.  "  You  have  the  real  Killarney  fern,  Sir 
Nicholas,  I  can  see ;  the  other,  I  speak  of,  though  to  me  al- 
most as  lovely,  is  not  a  bit  like  it." 

She  is  very  careful  to  give  him  his  title  ever  since  that  en- 
counter with  his  mother. 

"  I  shall  not  be  disappointed.  I  have  read  all  about  it,"  re- 
turns he,  enthusiastically.  Then,  as  though  the  thought  baa 
just  struck  him,  he  says, — 

"  Why  don't  you  call  me  Nicholas,  as  Geoifrey  does?" 

Mona  hesitates,  then  says,  shyly,  with  downcast  eyes, — 

"  Perhaps  Lady  llodney  would  not  like  it." 

Her  face  betrays  more  than  she  knows. 

"  It  doesn't  matter  in  the  least  what  any  one  thinks  on  thia 
subject,"  says  Nicholas,  with  a  slight  frown.  "  I  shall  esteem 
it  a  very  great  honor  if  you  will  call  me  by  my  Christian 
name.  And  besides,  Mona,  I  want  you  to  try  to  care  for  me, 
— to  love  me,  as  I  am  your  brother." 

The  ready  tears  spring  into  Mona's  eyes.  She  is  more 
deeply,  passionately  grateful  to  him  for  this  small  speech  than 
he  will  ever  know. 

"  Now,  that  is  very  kind  of  you,"  she  says,  lifting  her  eyes, 
humid  with  tears,  to  his.  "  And  I  think  it  will  take  only  a 
very  little  time  to  make  me  love  you  I" 

After  this,  she  and  Sir  Nicholas  are  even  better  friends  than 
they  have  been  before, — a  silent  bond  of  sympathy  seeming  to 
exist  between  them.  With  Captain  Rodney,  though  he  is  al- 
ways kind  to  her,  she  makes  less  way,  he  being  devoted  to  the 
society  of  Violet,  and  being  besides  of  such  a  careless  dispo- 
sition as  prevents  his  noticing  the  wants  of  those  around,— 
which  is  perhaps  another  name  for  selfishness. 

Yet  selfish  is  hardly  the  word  to  apply  to  Jack  Rodney, 
because  at  heart  he  is  kindly  and  aifectionate,  and,  if  a  little 
heedless  and  indiflferent,  is  still  good  au  fond.  He  is  lights 
hearted  and  agreeable,  and  singularly  hopeful : 

"  A  man  he  seems  of  cheerful  yesterdays 
And  confident  to-morrows." 

During  the  past  month  he  has  grown  singularly  domestic, 
and  fond  of  home  and  its  associations.  Perhaps  Violet  has 
something  to  do  with  this,  with  her  little  calm  thoroughbred 


MRS.  OEOFFREY.  1G3 

tacc,  and  gentle  manners,  and  voice  low  and  trainante.  Yet 
it  would  be  hard  to  be  sure  of  this,  Captain  Rodney  beiug 
one  of  those  who  have  "  sighed  to  many,"  without  even  the 
saving  clause  of  having  "  loved  but  one."  Yet  with  regard 
to  Mona  there  is  no  mistake  about  Jack  Rodney's  sentiments. 
He  likes  her  well  (could  she  but  know  it)  in  all  sincerity. 

Of  course  everybody  that  is  anybody  has  called  on  the  new 
Mrs.  Rodney.  The  Duchess  of  Lauderdale,  who  is  an  old 
friend  of  Lady  Rodney's,  and  who  is  spending  the  winter  at 
her  country  house  to  please  her  son  the  young  duke,  who  is 
entertaining  a  houseful  of  friends,  is  almost  the  first  to  come. 
And  Lady  Lilias  Eaton,  the  serious  and  earnest-minded  young 
aesthetic, — than  whom  nothing  can  be  more  coldly  and  artis- 
tically correct  according  to  her  own  school, — is  perhaps  the 
second  ;  but  to  both,  unfortunately,  Mona  is  "  not  at  home." 

And  very  honestly,  too,  because  at  the  time  of  their  visits, 
vhen  Lady  Rodney  was  entertaining  them  in  the  big  drawing- 
room  and  uttering  platitudes  and  pretty  lies  by  the  score,  she 
was  deep  in  the  recesses  of  the  bare  brown  wood,  roaming 
hither  and  thither  in  search  of  such  few  flowers  as  braved  the 
wintry  blasts. 

For  all  this  Lady  Rodney  is  devoutly  thankful.  She  is 
glad  of  the  girl's  absence.  She  has  no  desire  to  exhibit  her, 
prejudice  making  Mona's  few  small  defects  look  monstrous  in 
her  eyes.  Yet  these  same  defects  might  perhaps  be  counted 
on  the  fingers  of  one  hand. 

There  is,  for  example,  her  unavoidable  touch  of  brogue ; 
her  little  gesture  of  intense  excitement,  and  irrepressible  ex- 
clamation when  anything  is  said  that  affects  or  interests  her, 
and  her  laugh,  which,  if  too  loud  for  ordinary  drawing-room 
use,  is  yet  so  sweet  and  catching  that  involuntarily  it  brings 
an  answering  laugh  to  the  lips  of  those  who  hear  it. 

All  these  faults,  and  others  of  even  less  weight,  are  an 
abomination  in  the  eyes  of  Lady  Rodney,  who  has  fallen  into  a 
prim  mould,  out  of  which  it  would  now  be  difficult  to  extricate 
her. 

"  There  is  a  set  of  people  whom  I  cannot  bear,"  says  Chal- 
mers, "  the  pinks  of  fashionable  propriety,  whose  every  word 
is  precise,  and  whose  every  movement  is  unexceptionable,  but 
who,  though  versed  in  all  the  categories  of  polite  behavior, 
have  not  a  particle  of  soul  or  cordiality  about  them." 


104  MJiS-   GEOFFREY. 

Such  folk  Chalmers  hated;  and  I  agree  with  Chalmers. 
And  of  this  class  is  Lady  Rodney,  without  charity  or  leniency 
for  the  shortcomings  of  those  around  her.  Like  many  relig- 
ious people, — who  are  no  doubt  good  in  their  own  way, — sho 
fails  to  see  any  grace  in  those  who  differ  from  her  in  thought 
and  opinion. 

And  by  degrees,  beneath  her  influence,  Mona  grows  pale 
and  distrait  and  in  many  respects  unlike  her  old  joyous  self. 
Each  cold  reproving  glance  and  sneering  word — however  care- 
fully concealed — falls  like  a  touch  of  ice  upon  her  heart,  chill- 
ing and  withering  her  glad  youth.  Up  to  this  she  has  led  a 
bird's  life,  gay,  insouciant,  free,  and  careless.  Now  her  song 
seems  checked,  her  sweetest  notes  are  dying  fast  away  through 
lack  of  sympathy.  She  is  "  cribbed,  cabined,  and  confined," 
through  no  fault  of  her  own,  and  grows  listless  and  dispirited 
in  her  captivity. 

And  Geoff"rey,  who  is  blind  to  nothing  that  concerns  her, 
notices  all  this,  and  secretly  determines  on  taking  her  away 
from  all  this  foolish  persecution,  to  London  or  elsewhere,  until 
Buch  time  as  their  own  home  shall  be  ready  to  receive  them.^ 

But  at  this  break  in  my  history,  almost  as  he  forms  this 
resolution,  an  event  occurs  that  brings  friends  to  Mona,  and 
changes  in  toto  the  aspect  of  affairs. 


CHAPTER  XX. 


HOW  MONA  DANCES  A  COUNTRY  DANCE  BEFORE  A  HYPER- 
CRITICAL AUDIENCE — AND  HOW  MORE  EYES  THAN  SHK 
WOTS  OP  MARK  HER  PERFORMANCE. 

"  I  HOPE  you  have  had  a  nice  walk  ?"  says  Violet,  politely, 
drawing  her  skirts  aside  to  make  room  for  Mona,  who  has  just 
eome  in. 

It  is  quite  half-past  sis  ;  and  though  there  is  no  light  in  the 
room,  save  the  glorious  flames  given  forth  by  the  pine  logs 
that  lie  on  the  top  of  the  coals,  still  one  can  see  that  the  occu- 
pants of  the  apartment  are  dressed  for  dinner. 

Miss  Darling — Sir  Nicholas's /aHce'e — and  her  brother  are 


MRS.   GEOFFREY.  165 

expected  to-night ;  and  so  the  household  generally  has  dressed 
itself  earlier  than  usual  to  be  in  full  readiness  to  receive 
them. 

Lady  Rodney  and  Violet  are  sitting  over  the  fire,  and  now 
Mona  joins  them,  gowned  in  the  blue  satin  dress  in  which  she 
had  come  to  meet  GeoflFrey,  not  so  many  months  ago,  in  th« 
Did  wood  behind  the  farm. 

"  Very  nice,"  she  says,  in  answer  to  Violet's  question,  sink- 
ing into  the  chair  that  Miss  Mansergh,  by  a  small  gesture, 
half  languid,  half  kindly,  has  pushed  towards  her,  and  which 
is  close  to  Violet's  own.  "  I  went  up  the  avenue,  and  then 
out  on  the  road  for  about  half  a  mile." 

"  It  is  a  very  late  hour  for  any  one  to  be  on  a  public  road," 
says  Lady  Rodney,  unpleasantly,  quite  forgetting  that  people, 
as  a  rule,  do  not  go  abroad  in  pale-blue  satin  gowns,  and  that 
therefore  some  time  must  have  elapsed  between  Mona's  return 
from  her  walk  and  the  donning  of  her  present  attire.  And 
so  she  overreaches  herself,  as  clever  people  will  do,  at  times. 

"  It  was  two  hours  ago,"  says  Mona,  gently.  "  And  then 
it  was  quite  daylight,  or  at  least" — truthfully — "  only  the 
beginning  of  dusk." 

"  I  think  the  days  are  lengthening,"  says  Violet,  quietly, 
defending  Mona  unconsciously,  and  almost  without  knowing 
why.  Yet  in  her  heart — against  her  will  as  it  were — she  is 
making  room  for  this  Irish  girl,  who,  with  her  great  appealing 
eyes  and  tender  ways,  is  not  to  be  resisted. 

"  I  had  a  small  adventure,"  says  Mona,  presently,  with  sup- 
pressed gayety.  All  her  gayety  of  late  has  been  suppressed 
"  Just  as  I  came  back  to  the  gate  here,  some  one  came  riding 
by,  and  I  turned  to  see  who  it  was,  at  which  his  horse — as 
though  frightened  by  my  sudden  movement — shied  viciously, 
and  then  reared  so  near  me  as  almost  to  strike  me  with  his 
fore-paws.  I  was  frightened  rather,  because  it  was  all  so  sud- 
den, and  sprang  to  one  side.  Then  the  gentleman  got  down, 
and,  coming  to  me,  begged  my  pardon.  I  said  it  didn't  matter, 
because  I  was  really  uninjured,  and  it  was  all  my  fault.  But 
he  seemed  very  sorry,  and  (it  was  dusk  as  I  told  you,  and  I 
believe  he  is  short-sighted)  stared  at  me  a  great  deal." 

"  "Well  ?"  says  Violet,  who  is  smiling,  and  seems  to  see  a 
joke  where  Mona  fails  to  see  anything  amusing. 

"  When  he  was  tired  of  staring,  he  said,  '  I  suppose  I  am 


106  MRS.  GEOFFREY. 

epeaking  to '  and  then  he  stopped.  *  Mrs.  Rodney,'  re- 
plied I ;  and  then  he  raised  his  hat,  and  bowed,  and  gave  mo 
his  card.     After  that  he  mounted  again,  and  rode  away." 

"  But  who  was  this  gentleman  ?"  says  Lady  Rodney,  super- 
ciliously.    "  No  doubt  some  draper  from  the  town." 

"  No ;  he  was  not  a  draper,"  says  Mona,  gently,  and  with- 
out haste. 

"  Whoever  he  was,  he  hardly  excelled  in  breeding,"  says 
Lady  Rodney ;  "  to  ask  your  name  without  an  introduction  I 
I  never  heard  of  such  a  thing.  Very  execrable  form,  indeed. 
In  your  place  I  should  not  have  given  it.  And  to  manage  his 
horse  so  badly  that  he  nearly  ran  you  down.  He  could  hardly 
be  any  one  we  know.     Some  petty  squire,  no  doubt." 

"  No  ;  not  a  petty  squire,"  says  Mona  ;  "  and  I  think  you  do 
know  him.  And  why  should  I  be  ashamed  to  tell  my  name 
to  any  one?" 

"  The  question  was  strictly  in  bad  taste,"  says  Lady  Rodney, 
again.  "  No  well-bred  man  would  ask  it.  I  can  hardly  be- 
lieve I  know  him.  He  must  have  been  some  impossible  per- 
son." 

"  He  was  the  Duke  of  Lauderdale,"  says  Mona,  simply. 
"  Here  is  his  card." 

A  pause. 

Lady  Rodney  is  plainly  disconcerted,  but  says  nothing. 
Violet  follows  suit,  but  more  because  she  is  thoroughly  amused 
and  on  the  point  of  laughter,  than  from  a  desire  to  make  mat- 
ters worse. 

"  I  hope  you  had  your  hat  on,"  says  Lady  Rodney,  pres- 
ently, in  a  severe  tone,  meant  to  cover  her  defeat.  She  had 
once  seen  Mona  with  the  crimson  silk  handkerchief  on  her 
head, — Irish  fashion, — and  had  expressed  her  disapproval  of 
all  such  uncivilized  head-dresses. 

"  Yes ;  I  wore  my  big  Rubens  hat,  the  one  with " 

"  I  don't  care  to  hear  about  the  contents  of  your  wardrobe," 
interrupts  Lady  Rodney,  with  a  slight  but  unkind  shrug.  "  I 
am  glad,  at  least,  you  were  not  seen  in  that  objectionable  head- 
dress you  so  often  aflfect." 

"  Was  it  the  Rubens  hat  with  the  long  brown  feather  ?" 
asks  Violet,  sweetly,  turning  to  Mona,  as  though  compelled 
by  some  unknown  force  to  say  anything  tbat  shall  restore  the 
girl  to  evenness  of  mind  once  luore. 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  167 

"  Yes ;  the  one  with  the  brown  feather,"  returns  Mona, 
quickly,  and  with  a  smile  radiant  and  grateful,  that  sinks  into 
Violet's  heart  and  rests  there. 

"  You  told  the  duke  who  you  were  ?"  breaks  in  Lady  Rod- 
ney at  this  moment,  who  is  in  one  of  her  worst  moods. 

"  Yes  ;  I  said  I  was  Mrs.  Rodney." 

"  iNIrs.  Geoffrey  Rodney,  would  have  been  more  correct 
You  forget  your  husband  is  the  youngest  son.  When  Captain 
Rodney  marries,  his  wife  will  be  Mrs.  Rodney." 

"  But  surely  until  then  Mona  may  lay  claim  to  the  title," 
says  Violet,  quickly. 

"  I  do  not  wish  to  lay  claim  to  anything,"  says  Mona, 
throwing  up  her  head  with  a  little  proud  gesture, — "  least  of 
all  to  what  does  not  by  right  belong  to  me.  To  be  Mrs. 
Geoffrey  is  all  I  ask." 

She  leans  back  in  her  chair,  and  brings  her  fingers  together, 
clasping  them  so  closely  that  her  very  nails  grow  white.  Her 
thin  nostrils  dilate  a  little,  and  her  breath  comes  quickly,  but 
no  angry  word  escapes  her.  How  can  her  lips  give  utterance 
to  a  speech  that  may  wound  the  mother  of  the  man  she 
loves ! 

Violet,  watching  her,  notes  the  tumult  in  her  mind,  and, 
seeing  how  her  will  gains  mastery  over  her  desire,  honors  her 
for  her  self-control. 

Then  Jack  comes  in,  and  Sir  Nicholas,  and  later  on 
Geoffrey. 

"  No  one  can  say  we  are  not  in  time,"  says  Jack,  gayly. 
"  It  is  exactly" — examining  closely  the  ormolu-clock  upon  the 
mantelpiece — "  one  hour  before  we  can  reasonably  expect 
dinner." 

"  And  three-quarters.  Don't  deceive  yourself,  my  dear  fel- 
low :  they  can't  be  here  one  moment  before  a  quarter  to  eight." 

"  Then,  in  the  mean  time,  Violet,  I  shall  eat  you,"  says 
Captain  Rodney,  amiably,  "just  to  take  the  edge  off  my  ap- 
petite. You  would  be  hardly  sufficient  for  a  good  meal  l" 
He  laughs  and  glances  significantly  at  her  slight  but  charm- 
ing figure,  which  is  petite  but  perfect,  and  then  sinks  into  a 
low  chair  near  her. 

"  I  hear  this  dance  at  the  Chetwoodes'  is  to  be  rather  a 
large  affair,"  says  Geoffrey,  indifferently.  "  I  met  Gore  to- 
day, and  he  says  the  duchess  is  going,  and  half  the  county." 


168  MRS.  GEOFFREY. 

"  Does  he  mean  going  himself?"  says  Nicholas,  idly.  "  He 
is  here  to-day,  I  know,  but  one  never  knows  where  he  may  be 
to-morrow,  he  is  so  erratio." 

"  He  is  a  little  difl&cult ;  but,  on  the  whole,  I  think  I  like 
Sir  Mark  better  than  most  men,"  says  Violet,  slowly. 

Whereupon  Jack  Rodney  instantly  conceives  a  sudden  and 
uncalled-fur  dislike  towards  the  man  in  question. 

"  Lilian  is  such  a  dear  girl,"  says  Lady  Rodney ;  "  she  is  a 
very  general  favorite.  I  have  no  doubt  her  dance  will  be  a 
great  success." 

"  You  are  speaking  of  Lady  Chetwoode  ?  Was  it  her  that 
called  last  week  ?"  asks  Mona,  timidly,  forgetting  grammar  in 
her  nervousness. 

"  Yes  ;  it  was  her  that  called  last  week,"  returns  her  amiable 
mother-in-law,  laying  an  unmistakable  stress  upon  the  pronoun. 

No  one  is  listening,  fortunately,  to  this  gratuitous  correction, 
or  hot  words  might  have  been  the  result.  Sir  Nicholas  and 
Geoffrey  are  laughing  over  some  old  story  that  has  been 
brought  to  their  recollection  by  this  idle  chattering  about  the 
Chetwoodes'  ball ;  Jack  and  Violet  are  deep  in  some  topic  of 
their  own. 

"  Well,  she  danced  like  a  fairy,  at  all  events,  in  spite  of 
her  size,"  says  Sir  Nicholas,  alluding  to  the  person  the  funny 
story  had  been  about. 

"  You  dance,  of  course,"  says  Lady  Rodney,  turning  to 
Mona,  a  little  ashamed,  perhaps,  of  her  late  rudeness. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  says  Mona,  brightening  even  under  this  small 
touch  of  friendliness.  "  I'm  very  fond  of  it,  too.  I  can  get 
through  all  the  steps  without  a  mistake." 

At  this  extraordinary  speech,  Lady  Rodney  stares  in  be- 
wilderment. 

"  Ah  I  Waltzes  and  polkas,  you  mean  ?"  she  says,  in  a 
puzzled  tone. 

"  Eh  ?"  says  Mrs.  Geoffrey. 

"  You  can  waltz  ?" 

"  Oh,  no  !"  shaking  her  lovely  head  emphatically,  with  a 
smile.  "  It's  country  dances  I  mean.  Up  the  middle  and 
down  again,  and  all  that,"  moving  her  hand  in  a  soft  undu- 
lating way  as  though  keeping  it  in  accord  with  some  music 
that  is  ringing  in  her  brain.  Then,  sweetly,  "  Did  ycm  ever 
dance  a  country  dantiP  ?" 


MRS.  GEOFFREY  169 

"  Never !"  says  Lady  Rodney,  in  a  stony  fashion.  "  I 
don't  even  know  what  you  mean," 

"  No  ?"  arching  her  brows,  and  looking  really  sorry  for  her. 
*'  What  a  pity  !  They  all  come  quite  naturally  to  me.  I 
don't  remember  ever  being  taught  them.  The  music  seemed 
to  inspire  me,  and  I  really  dance  them  very  well.  Doq'^  I, 
Geoff?" 

"  I  never  saw  your  equal,"  says  Geoffrey,  who,  with  Sir 
Nicholas,  has  been  listening  to  the  last  half  of  the  conversa- 
tion, and  who  is  plainly  suppressing  a  strong  desire  to  laugh. 

"  Do  you  remember  the  evening  you  taught  me  the  coun 
try  dance  that  I  said  was  like  an  old-fashioned  minuet  ?  And 
what  an  apt  pupil  I  proved  !  I  really  think  I  could  dance  it 
now.  By  the  by,  my  mother  never  saw  one  danced.  She" — 
apologetically — "  has  not  been  out  much.  Let  us  go  through 
one  now  for  her  benefit." 

"  Yes,  let  us,"  says  Mona,  gayly. 

"  Pray  do  not  give  yourselves  so  much  trouble  on  my  ac- 
count," says  Lady  Rodney,  with  intense  but  subdued  indigna- 
tion. 

"  It  won't  trouble  us,  not  a  hit"  says  Mrs.  Geoffrey,  rising 
with  alacrity.  "  I  shall  love  it,  the  floor  is  so  nice  and  slip- 
pery.    Can  any  one  whistle?" 

At  this  Sir  Nicholas  gives  way  and  laughs  out  loud,  whereon 
Mona  laughs  too,  though  she  reddens  slightly,  and  says,  "  Well, 
of  course  the  piano  will  do,  though  the  fiddle  is  best  of  all." 

"  Violet,  play  us  something,"  says  Geoffrey,  who  has  quite 
entered  into  the  spirit  of  the  thing,  and  who  doesn't  mind  his 
mother's  "  horrors"  in  the  least,  but  remembers  how  sweet 
Mona  used  to  look  when  going  slowly  and  with  that  quaint 
solenm  dignity  of  hers  "  through  her  steps." 

"  I  shall  be  charmed,"  says  Violet ;  "  but  what  is  a  country 
dance  ?     Will  '  Sir  Roger'  do  ?" 

"  No.  Play  anything  monotonous,  that  is  slow  and  digni- 
fied besides,  and  it  will  answer ;  in  fact,  anything  at  all,"  says 
Geoffrey,  largely,  at  which  Violet  smiles  and  seats  herself  at 
the  piano. 

"  Well,  just  wait  till  I  tuck  up  the  tail  of  my  gown,"  says 
Mrs.  Geoffrey,  airily  flinging  her  pale-blue  skirt  over  her  white 
bare  arm. 

"  You  may  as  well  call  it  a  train  ;  people  like  it  better,"  says 

H  15 


170  MRS.  OEOFFRET. 

GeoflPrey.  "  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  why,  but  perhaps  it  sounda 
better." 

"  There  can  be  scarcely  any  question  about  that,"  says  Lady 
Rodney,  unwilling  to  let  any  occasion  pass  that  may  permit  a 
slap  at  Moua. 

*'  Yet  the  Princess  D always  calls  her  train  a  '  tail,'  " 

Bays  Violet,  turning  on  her  piano-stool  to  make  this  remark, 
which  is  balm  to  Mona's  soul ;  after  which  she  once  more  con- 
centrates her  thoughts  on  the  instrument  before  her,  and  plays 
bome  odd  old-fashioned  air  that  suits  well  the  dance  of  which 
they  have  been  speaking. 

Then  Geoifrey  offers  Mona  his  hand,  and  leads  her  to  the 
centre  of  the  polished  floor.  There  they  salute  each  other  in 
a  rather  Grandisonian  fashion,  and  then  separate. 

The  light  from  the  great  pine  fire  streams  over  all  the  room, 
throwing  a  rich  glow  upon  the  scene,  upon  the  girl's  flushed 
and  earnest  face,  and  large  happy  eyes,  and  graceful  rounded 
figure,  betraying  also  the  grace  and  poetry  of  her  every  move- 
ment. 

She  stands  well  back  from  Geoffrey,  and  then,  without  any 
of  the  foolish,  unlovely  bashfulness  that  degenerates  so  often 
into  awkwardness  in  the  young,  begins  her  dance. 

It  is  a  very  curious  and  obsolete,  if  singularly  charming, 
performance,  full  of  strange  bows,  and  unexpected  turnings, 
and  curtseys  dignified  and  deep. 

As  she  advances  and  retreats,  with  her  svelte  figure  drawn 
to  its  fullest  height,  and  her  face  eager  and  intent  upon  the 
business  in  hand,  and  with  her  whole  heart  thrown  apparently 
into  the  successful  accomplishment  of  her  task,  she  is  looking 
far  lovelier  than  she  herself  is  at  all  aware. 

Even  Lady  Rodney  for  the  moment  has  fallen  a  prey  to  her 
unpremeditated  charms,  and  is  leaning  forward  anxiously 
watching  her.     Jack  and  Sir  Nicholas  are  enchanted. 

The  shadows  close  them  in  on  every  side.  Only  the  fire- 
light illumines  the  room,  casting  its  most  brilliant  and  ruddy 
rays  upon  its  central  figures,  until  they  look  like  beings  con- 
jured up  from  the  olden  times,  as  they  flit  to  and  fro  in  the 
slow  mysterious  mazes  of  the  dance. 

Mona's  naked  arms  gleam  like  snow  in  the  uncertain  light. 
Each  movement  of  hers  is  full  of  grace  and  verve.  Her  entire 
action  is  perfect. 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  171 

"  Her  feet  beneath  her  petticoat 
Like  little  mice,  stole  in  and  out. 

As  if  they  feared  the  light. 
And,  oh  !  she  dances  such  a  way, 
No  suu  upon  an  Easter  day 

Is  half  80  fine  a  sight." 

The  music,  soft  and  almost  mournful,  echoes  through  (he 
room  ;  the  feet  keep  time  upon  the  oaken  floor ;  weird-like  tho 
two  forms  move  through  the  settled  gloom. 

The  door  at  the  farthest  end  of  the  room  has  been  opened, 
and  two  people  who  are  as  yet  invisible  stand  upon  the  thresh- 
old, too  surprised  to  advance,  too  enthralled,  indeed,  by  the 
sight  before  them  to  wish  to  do  so. 

Only  as  Mrs.  GeoflFrey  makes  her  final  curtsey,  and  Geoffrey, 
with  a  laugh,  stoops  forward  to  kiss  her  lips  instead  of  her 
hand,  as  acknowledgment  of  her  earnest  and  very  sweet  per- 
fonnance,  thereby  declaring  the  same  to  have  come  to  a  timely 
end,  do  the  new-comers  dare  to  show  themselves. 

"  Oh,  how  pretty  1"  cries  one  of  them  from  the  shadow,  as 
though  grieved  the  dance  has  come  so  quickly  to  an  end. 
"How  lovely!" 

At  this  voice  every  one  starts  I  Mona,  slipping  her  hand 
into  Geoffrey's,  draws  him  to  one  side  ;  Lady  Rodney  rises 
from  her  sofa,  and  Sir  Nicholas  goes  eagerly  towards  the  door. 

"  You  have  come !"  cries  he,  in  a  tone  Mona  has  never 
heard  before,  and  then — there  is  no  mistake  about  the  fact 
that  he  and  the  shadow  have  embraced  each  other  heartily. 

"  Yes,  we  have  indeed,"  says  the  same  sweet  voice  again, 
which  is  the  merriest  and  softest  voice  imaginable,  "  and  in 
very  good  time  too,  as  it  seems.  Nolly  and  I  have  been  hero 
for  fully  five  minutes,  and  have  been  so  delighted  with  what 
we  have  seen  that  we  positively  could  not  stir.  Dear  Lady 
Rodney,  how  d'ye  do  ?" 

She  is  a  very  little  girl,  quite  half  a  head  shorter  than 
Mona,  and,  now  that  one  can  see  her  more  plainly  as  she 
Btands  on  the  hearth-rug,  something  more  than  commonly 
pretty. 

Her  eyes  are  large  and  blue,  with  a  shade  of  green  in  them , 
her  lips  are  soft  and  mobile ;  her  whole  expression  is  dibon- 
naire,  yet  full  of  tenderness.  She  is  brightness  itself;  each 
inward  thought,  be  it  of  grief  or  gladness,  makes  itself  out^ 
wardly  known  in  the  constant  changes  of  her  face.     Her  hair 


172  MRS.  GEOFFREY. 

is  cut  above  her  forehead,  and  is  quite  golden,  yet  perhaps  it 
is  a  degree  darker  than  the  ordinary  hair  we  hear  described 
as  yellow.  To  me,  to  think  of  Dorothy  Darling's  head  ia 
always  to  remind  myself  of  that  line  in  Milton's  "  Comus," 
where  he  speaks  of 

"  The  loose  train  of  thy  amber-drooping  hair." 

She  is  very  sweet  to  look  at,  and  attractive  and  lovable. 

"  Her  angel's  face 
As  the  great  eye  of  heaven  shined  bright, 
And  made  a  sunshine  in  the  shady  place." 

Such  is  Nicholas's  betrothed,  to  whom,  as  she  gazes  on  her, 
all  at  once,  in  the  first  little  moment,  Mona's  whole  soul  goes 
out. 

She  has  shaken  hands  with  everybody,  and  has  kissed  Lady 
Rodney,  and  is  now  being  introduced  to  Mona. 

"  Your  wife,  Geoffrey  ?"  she  says,  holding  Mona's  hand  all 
the  time,  and  gazing  at  her  intently.  Then,  as  though  some- 
thing in  Mrs.  Geoffrey's  beautiful  face  attracts  her  strangely, 
she  lifts  her  face  and  presses  her  soft  lips  to  Mona's  cheek. 

A  rush  of  hope  and  gladness  thrills  Mona's  bosom  at  this 
gentle  touch.  It  is  the  very  first  caress  she  has  ever  received 
from  one  of  Geoffrey's  friends  or  relations. 

"  I  think  somebody  might  introduce  me,"  says  a  plaintive 
voice  from  the  background,  and  Dorothy's  brother,  putting 
Dorothy  a  little  to  one  side,  holds  out  his  hand  to  Mona.  "  How 
d'ye  do,  Mrs.  Rodney  ?"  he  says,  pleasantly.  "  There's  a 
dearth  of  etiquette  about  your  husband  that  no  doubt  you 
have  discovered  before  this.  He  has  evidently  forgotten  that 
we  are  comparative  strangers ;  but  we  sha'n't  be  long  so,  I 
hope?" 

"  I  hope  not,  indeed,"  says  Mona,  giving  him  her  hand  with 
a  very  flattering  haste. 

"  You  have  come  quite  half  an  hour  earlier  than  we  ex- 
pected you,"  says  Sir  Nicholas,  looking  with  fond  satisfaction 
into  Miss  Darling's  eyes.     "  These  trains  are  very  uncertain." 

"  It  wasn't  the  train  so  much,"  says  Doatie,  with  a  merry 
laugh,  "  as  Nolly :  we  weren't  any  time  coming,  because  ho 
got  out  and  took  the  reins  from  Hewson,  and  after  that  I 
rather  think  he  took  it  out  of  your  bays,  Nichola.s." 


MRS.   GEOFFREY.  173 

"  Well,  I  never  met  such  a  blab  I  I  believe  you'd  peaeh  on 
your  grandmother,"  says  her  brother,  with  supreme  contempt. 
"  I  didn't  do  'em  a  bit  of  harm,  Rodney,  I  give  you  my  word." 

"  I'll  take  it,"  says  Nicholas ;  "  but,  even  if  you  did,  I 
should  still  owe  you  a  debt  of  gratitude  for  bringing  Doatie 
here  thirty  minutes  before  we  hoped  for  her." 

"  Now  make  him  your  best  curtsey,  Dolly,"  says  Mr.  Dar- 
ling, seriously :  "  it  isn't  every  day  you  will  get  such  a  pretty 
speech  as  that," 

"  And  see  what  we  gained  by  our  haste,"  says  Dorothy, 
smiling  at  Mona.  "  You  can't  think  what  a  charming  sight 
it  was.  Like  an  old  legend  or  a  fairy-tale.  Was  it  a  minuet 
you  were  dancing?" 

"  Oh,  no ;  only  a  country  dance,"  says  Mona,  blushing. 

"  Well,  it  was  perfect:  wasn't  it,  Violet?" 

"  I  wish  I  could  have  seen  it  better,"  returns  Violet,  "  but, 
you  see,  I  was  playing." 

"  I  wish  I  could  have  seen  it  forever,"  says  Mr.  Darling, 
gallantly,  addressing  Mona  ;  "  but  all  good  things  have  an  end 
too  soon.  Do  you  remember  some  lines  like  these  ?  they  come 
to  me  just  now : 

"  When  you  do  dance,  I  wish  you 
A  wave  o'  the  sea,  that  you  might  ever  do 
Nothing  but  that." 

"  Yes,  1  recollect :  they  are  from  the  '  Winter's  Tale,'  I 
think,"  says  Mona,  shyly  ;  "  but  you  say  too  much  for  me," 

"  Not  half  enough,"  says  Mr,  Darling,  enthusiastically. 

"  Don't  you  think,  sir,  you  would  like  to  get  ready  for  din- 
ner?" says  Geoffrey,  with  mock  severity,  "  You  can  continue 
your  attentions  to  my  wife  later  on, — at  your  peril." 

"  I  accept  the  risk,"  says  Nolly,  with  much  stateliness,  and 
forthwith  retires  to  make  himself  presentable. 


16* 


174  MRS.  GEOFFREY. 


CHAPTER  XXL 

HOW  NOLLY,  HAVING  MADE  HIMSELF  PRESENTABLE,  TRIES 
ALSO  TO  MAKE  HIMSELF  AGREEABLE — AND  HOW  HE 
SUCCEEDS. 

Me.  Darling  is  a  flaxen-haired  young  gentleman  of  about 
four-and-twenty,  with  an  open  and  ingenuous  countenance, 
and  a  disposition  cheerful  to  the  last  degree.  He  is  positively 
beaming  with  youth  and  good  spirits,  and  takes  no  pains  what- 
ever to  suppress  the  latter ;  indeed,  if  so  sweet-tempered  a 
youth  could  be  said  to  have  a  fault,  it  lies  in  his  inability  to 
hold  his  tongue.  Talk  he  must,  so  talk  he  does, — anywhere 
and  everywhere,  and  under  all  circumstances. 

He  succeeds  in  taking  Mona  down  to  dinner,  and  shows 
himself  particularly  devoted  through  all  the  time  they  spend 
in  the  dining-room,  and  follows  her  afterwards  to  the  drawing- 
room,  as  soon  as  decency  will  permit.  He  has,  in  fact,  fallen 
a  hopeless  victim  to  Mona's  charms,  and  feels  no  shame  in  the 
thought  that  all  the  world  must  notice  his  subjugation.  On 
the  contrary,  he  seems  to  glory  in  it. 

"  I  was  in  your  country  the  other  day,"  he  says,  pushing 
Mona's  skirts  a  little  to  one  side,  and  sinking  on  to  the  otto- 
man she  has  chosen  as  her  own  resting-place.  "  And  a  very 
nice  country  it  is." 

"  Ah  1  were  you  really  there  1"  says  Mona,  growing  at  oncB 
bright  and  excited  at  the  bare  mention  of  her  native  land. 
At  such  moments  she  falls  again  unconsciously  into  the  "  thens," 
and  "  sures,"  and  "  ohs  !"  and  "  ahs  !"  of  her  Ireland. 

"  Yes,  I  was  indeed.  Down  in  a  small  place  called  Castle- 
Council,  near  Limerick.  Nice  people  in  Limerick,  but  a  trifle 
flighty,  don't  you  think  ?  Fond  of  the  merry  blunderbuss, 
and  all  that,  and  with  a  decided  tendency  towards  midnight 
maraudings." 

"  T  am  afraid  you  went  to  almost  the  worst  part  of  Ire- 
land," says  IMona,  shaking  her  head.  "  New  Pallas,  and  all 
round  Limerick,  is  so  dreadfully  disloyal." 

"  Well,  that  was  just  my  luck,  you    see,"  says  Darling. 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  175 

"  We  have  some  property  there.  And,  as  I  am  not  of  much 
account  at  home,  '  my  awful  dad'  sent  me  over  to  Ireland  to 
Bee  why  the  steward  didn't  get  in  the  rents.  Perhaps  he 
hoped  the  natives  might  pepper  me ;  but,  if  so,  it  didn't  come 
off.  The  natives,  on  the  contrary,  quite  took  to  me,  and 
adopted  me  on  the  spot.  I  was  nearly  as  good  as  an  original 
Bon  of  Erin  in  a  week." 

"  But  how  did  you  manage  to  procure  their  good  graces?" 

"  I  expect  they  thought  me  beneath  their  notice,  and,  as  they 
wouldn't  hate  me,  they  were  forced  to  love  me.  Of  course 
they  treated  the  idea  of  paying  up  as  a  good  joke,  and  spoke 
a  great  deal  about  a  most  unpleasant  person  called  Griffith  and 
his  valuation,  whatever  that  may  be.  So  I  saw  it  was  of  no 
use,  and  threw  it  up, — my  mission,  I  mean.  I  had  capital 
shooting,  as  far  as  partridges  were  concerned,  but  no  one 
dreamed  of  wasting  a  bullet  upon  me.  They  positively  de- 
clined to  insert  a  bit  of  lead  in  my  body.  And,  considering  I 
expected  some  civility  of  the  kind  on  going  over,  I  felt  some 
what  disappointed,  and  decidedly  cheap." 

"  We  are  not  so  altogether  murderous  as  you  seem  to  think," 
gays  INIona,  half  apologetically. 

"  Murderous  !  They  are  a  delightful  people,  and  the  scenery 
is  charming,  you  know,  all  round.  The  Shannon  is  positively 
lovely.  But  they  wouldn't  pay  a  farthing.  And,  'pon  my 
life,  you  know,"  says  Mr.  Darling,  lightly,  "  I  couldn't  blame 
'em.  They  were  as  poor  as  poor  could  be,  regular  out-at- 
elbows,  you  know,  and  I  suppose  they  sadly  wanted  any  money 
they  had.  I  told  the  governor  so  when  I  came  back,  but  I 
don  t  think  he  seemed  to  see  it ;  sort  of  said  he  wanted  it  too, 
and  then  went  on  to  make  some  ugly  and  most  uncalled-for 
remarks  about  my  tailor's  bill,  which  of  course  I  treated  with 
the  contempt  they  deserved." 

"  Well,  but  it  was  a  little  hard  on  your  father,  wasn't  it  ?" 
says  Mona,  gently. 

"  Oh,  it  wasn't  much,"  says  the  young  man,  easily;  "an! 
he  needn't  have  cut  up  so  rough  about  it.  I  was  a  failure,  of 
X)urse,  but  I  couldn't  help  it ;  and,  after  all,  I  had  a  real  good 
time  in  spite  of  everything,  and  enjoyed  myself  when  there 
down  to  the  ground." 

"  I  am  glad  of  that,"  says  Mona,  nicely,  as  he  pauses  merely 
through  a  desire  for  breath,  not  from  a  desire  for  silence. 


176  MRS.  GEOFFREY. 

"  I  had,  really.  There  was  one  fellow,  a  perfect  giant,^ 
Terry  CFlynu  was  his  uame, — and  he  and  I  were  awful 
chums.  We  used  to  go  shooting  together  every  day,  and  got 
on  capitally.  He  was  a  tremendously  big  fellow,  could  put 
me  in  his  pocket,  you  know,  and  forget  I  was  there  until  I  re- 
minded him.  He  was  a  farmer's  son,  and  a  very  respectable 
sort  of  man.  I  gave  him  my  watch  when  I  was  coming  away, 
and  he  was  quite  pleased.  They  don't  have  much  watches, 
by  the  by,  the  lower  classes,  do  they." 

At  this  Mona  breaks  into  a  sweet  but  ringing  laugh,  that 
makes  Lady  Rodney  (who  is  growing  sleepy,  and,  therefore, 
irritable)  turn,  and  fix  upon  her  a  cold,  reproving  glance. 

Geoffrey,  too,  raises  his  head  and  smiles,  in  sympathy  with 
his  wife's  burst  of  merriment,  as  does  Miss  Darling,  who  stops 
her  conversation  with  Sir  Nicholas  to  listen  to  it. 

"What  are  you  talking  about?"  asks  Geoffrey,  joining 
Mona  and  her  companion. 

"  How  could  I  help  laughing,"  says  Mona.  "  Mr.  Darling 
has  just  expressed  surprise  at  the  fact  that  the  Irish  peasantry 
do  not  as  a  rule  possess  watches."  Then  suddenly  her  whole 
face  changes  from  gayety  to  extreme  sorrow.  "  Alas !  poor 
souls  !"  she  says,  mournfully,  "  they  don't,  as  a  rule,  have  even 
meat !" 

"  Well,  I  noticed  that,  too.  There  did  seem  to  be  a  great 
scarcity  of  that  raw  material,"  answers  Darling,  lightly.  "  Yet 
they  are  a  fine  race  in  spite  of  it.  I'm  going  over  again  to 
see  my  friend  Terry  before  very  long.  He  is  tlie  most  amusing 
fellow,  downright  brilliant.  So  is  his  hair,  by  the  by, — the 
very  richest  crimson." 

"  But  I  hope  you  were  not  left  to  spend  your  days  with 
Terry  ?"  says  Mona,  smiling. 

"  No.  All  the  county  people  round  when  they  heard  of 
me — which,  according  to  my  own  mental  calculations  on  the 
subject,  must  have  been  exactly  five  minutes  after  my  arrival 
— quite  adopted  me.  You  are  a  very  hospitable  nation,  Mrs. 
Kodney ;  nobody  can  deny  that.  Positively,  the  whole  time 
I  was  in  Limerick  I  could  have  dined  three  times  every  day 
had  I  so  chosen." 

"  Bless  ixe  !"  says  Geoffrey  ;  "  what  an  appalling  thought! 
it  makes  me  feel  faint." 

"  llather  so.    In  their  desire  to  feed  me  lay  my  only  danger 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  177 

of  death.  But  I  pulled  through.  And  I  liked  every  one  1 
met, — really,  you  know,"  to  Mona,  "  and  no  humbug.  Yet  I 
think  the  happiest  days  I  knew  over  there  were  those  spent 
with  Terry.  It  was  rather  a  sell,  though,  having  no  real 
adventure,  particularly  as  I  had  promised  one  not  only  to  my- 
self but  to  my  friends  when  starting  for  Paddy-land.  I  beg 
your  pardon  a  thousand  times  1     Ireland,  I  mean." 

"  I  don't  mind,"  says  Mona.   "  We  are  Paddies,  of  course." 

"  I  wish  I  was  one !"  says  Mr.  Dai-ling,  with  considerable 
effusion.  "  I  envy  the  people  who  can  claim  nationality  with 
you.  I'd  be  a  Paddy  myself  to-morrow  if  I  could,  for  that 
one  reason." 

"  What  a  funny  boy  you  are !"  says  Mona,  with  a  little 
laugh. 

"  So  they  all  tell  me.  And  of  course  what  every  one  says 
is  true.  We're  bound  to  be  friends,  aren't  we  ?"  rattles  on 
Darling,  pleasantly.  "  Our  mutual  love  for  Erin  should  be  a 
bond  between  us." 

"  I  hope  we  shall  be ;  I  am  sure  we  shall,"  returns  Mona, 
quickly.  It  is  sweet  to  her  to  find  a  possible  friend  in  this 
alien  land. 

''  Not  a  doubt  of  it,"  says  Nolly,  gayly.  "  Every  one  likes 
me,  you  know.  '  To  see  me  is  to  love  me,  and  love  but  me 
forever,'  and  all  that  sort  of  thing ;  we  shall  be  tremendous 
friends  in  no  time.  The  fact  is,  I'm  not  worth  hating ;  I'm 
neither  useful  nor  ornamental,  but  I'm  perfectly  harmless,  and 
there  is  something  in  that,  isn't  there  ?  Every  one  can't  say 
the  same.  I'm  utterly  certain  i/ou  can't,"  with  a  glance  of 
admiration. 

"  Don't  be  unkind  to  me,"  says  Mona,  with  just  a  touch  of 
innocent  and  bewitching  coquetry.  She  is  telling  herself  she 
likes  this  absurd  youtig  man  better  than  any  one  she  has  met 
since  she  came  to  England,  except  perhaps  Sir  Nicholas. 

"  That  i^j  out  of  my  power,"  says  Darling,  whom  the  last 
speech — and  glance  that  accompanied  it — has  completely  fin- 
ished. "  I  only  pray  you  of  your  grace  never  to  be  unkind 
to  me.' 

"  What  a  strange  name  yours  is  ! — Nolly,"  says  Mona,  pres- 
ently. 

"  Well,  I  wasn't  exactly  born  so,"  explains  Mr.  Darling, 
frankly ;  "  Oliver  is  my  name.     I  rather  fancy  my  own  name, 


178  MRS.  GEOFFREY. 

do  you  know  ;  it  is  uncommon,  at  all  events.  One  don't  hear 
it  called  round  every  corner,  and  it  reminds  one  of  that  '  bold 
bad  man'  the  Protector.  But  they  shouldn't  have  left  out  the 
Cromwell.  That  would  have  been  a  finishing  stroke.  To  hear 
ene's  self  announced  as  Oliver  Cromwell  Darling  in  a  public 
room  would  have  been  as  good  as  a  small  fortune." 

"  Better,"  says  Mona,  laughing  gayly. 

"  Yes,  really,  you  know,  I'm  in  earnest,"  declares  Mr. 
Darling,  laughing  too.  He  is  quite  delighted  with  Mona. 
To  find  his  path  through  life  strewn  with  people  who  will 
laugh  with  him,  or  even  at  him,  is  his  idea  of  perfect  bliss. 
So  he  chatters  on  to  her  until,  bed-hour  coming,  and  candles 
being  forced  into  notice,  he  is  at  length  obliged  to  tear  him- 
self away  from  her  and  follow  the  men  to  the  smoking-room. 

Here  he  lays  hands  on  Geoffrey. 

"  By  Jove,  you  know,  you've  about  done  it,"  he  says,  be- 
Btowing  upon  Geoffrey's  shoulder  a  friendly  pat  that  rather 
takes  the  breath  out  of  that  young  man's  body.  "  Gave  you 
credit  for  more  common  sense.  Why,  such  a  proceeding  as 
this  is  downright  folly.  You  are  bound  to  pay  for  your  fuu, 
you  know,  sooner  or  later." 

"  Sir,"  says  Mr.  Rodney,  taking  no  notice  of  this  pream- 
ble, "  I  shall  trouble  you  to  explain  what  you  mean  by  re- 
ducing an  inoffensive  shoulder-blade  to  powder." 

"  Beg  pardon,  I'm  sure,"  says  Nolly,  absently.  "  But" — 
with  sudden  interest — "  do  you  know  what  you  have  done? 
You  have  married  the  prettiest  woman  in  England." 

"  I  haven't,"  says  Geoffrey. 

"  You  have,"  says  Nolly. 

"  I  tell  you  I  have  not,"  says  Geoffrey.  "  Nothing  of  the 
sort.     You  are  wool-gathering." 

"  Good  gracious !  he  can't  mean  that  he  is  tired  of  her 
already,"  exclaims  Mr.  Darling,  in  an  audible  aside.  "  That 
would  be  too  much  even  for  our  times." 

At  this  Geoffrey  gives  way  to  mirth.  He  and  Darling  are 
virtually  alone,  as  Nicholas  and  Captain  Rodney  are  talking 
earnestly  about  the  impending  law-suit  in  a  distant  corner. 

"  My  dear  fellow,  you  have  overworked  your  brain,"  he 
Bays,  ironically  :  "  You  don't  understand  me.  I  am  not  tired 
of  her.  I  shall  never  cease  to  bless  the  day  I  saw  her," — 
— this  with  great  earnestness, — "  but  you  say  1  have  married 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  179 

the  handsomest  woman  in  England,  and  she  is  not  English  at 
all." 

"  Oh,  well,  what's  the  odds  ?"  says  Nolly.  "  "Whether  she 
IS  French  or  English,  Irish  or  German,  she  has  just  the  love- 
liest face  I  ever  saw,  and  the  sweetest  ways.  You've  done  an 
awfully  dangerous  thing.  You  will  be  Mrs.  Rodney's  hus- 
band in  no  time, — nothing  else,  and  you  positively  won't  know 
yourself  in  a  year  after.  Individuality  lost.  Name  gone. 
Nothing  left  but  your  four  bones.  Y'ou  will  be  quite  thank- 
ful for  them,  even,  after  a  bit." 

"  You  terrify  me,"  says  Geoffrey,  with  a  grimace.  "  You 
think,  then,  that  Moua  is  pretty  ?" 

"  Pretty  doesn't  express  it.  She  is  quite  intense  ;  and  new 
style,  too,  which  of  course  is  everything.  You  will  present 
her  next  season,  I  suppose  ?  You  must,  you  know,  if  only  in 
the  cause  of  friendship,  as  I  wouldn't  miss  seeing  Mrs.  Lain- 
trie's  and  Mrs.  Whelon's  look  of  disgust  when  your  wife  comes 
on  the  scene  for  worlds  1" 

"  Her  eyes  certainly  are "  says  Geoffrey. 

"  She  is  all  your  fancy  could  possibly  paint  her :  she  is 
lovely  and  divine.  Don't  try  to  analyze  her  charms,  my  dear 
Geoff.  She  is  just  the  prettiest  and  sweetest  woman  I  ever 
met.  She  is  young,  in  the  '  very  May  morn  of  delight,'  yet 
there  is  nothing  of  that  horrid  shyness — that  mauvaise  Jionte 
— about  her  that,  as  a  rule,  belongs  to  the  '  freshness  of  morn- 
ing.'    Her  laugh  is  so  sweet,  so  full  of  enjoyment." 

"  If  you  mean  me  to  repeat  all  this  back  again,  you  will 
find  yourself  jolly  well  mistaken ;  because,  understand  at 
once,  I  sha'n't  do  it,"  says  Geoffrey.  "  I'm  not  going  to  have 
a  hand  in  my  undoing ;  and  such  unqualified  praise  is  calcu- 
lated to  turn  any  woman's  head.  Seriously,  though,"  says 
Geoffrey,  laying  his  hands  on  Darling's  shoulders,  "  I'm  tre- 
mendously glad  you  like  her." 

"  Don't !"  says  Darling,  weakly.  "  Don't  put  it  in  that 
light.  It's  too  feeble.  If  you  said  I  was  madly  in  love  with 
your  wife  you  would  be  nearer  the  mark,  as  insanity  touches 
on  it.  I  haven't  felt  so  badly  for  years.  It  is  right  down 
unlucky  for  me,  this  meeting  with  Mrs.  Rodney." 

"  Poor  Mona  !"  says  Geoffrey  ;  "  don't  tell  her  about  it,  as 
remorse  may  sadden  her  " 

"  Look  here,"  says  Mr.  Darling,  "just  try  one  of  these,  do. 


180  MRS.  GEOFFREY. 

They  are  South  American  cigarettes,  and  nearly  as  strong  aa 
the  real  thing,  and  quite  better :  they  are  a  new  brand.  Try 
'em ;  they'll  quite  set  you  up." 

"  Give  me  one,  Nolly,"  says  Sir  Nicholas,  rousing  from  his 
revory. 


CHAPTER   XXII. 

HOW    MONA     GOES     TO     HER    FIRST    BALL — AND    HOW    SHE 
FARES   THEREAT. 

It  is  the  day  of  Lady  Chetwoode's  ball,  or,  to  be  particular, 
for  critics  "  prove  unkind"  these  times,  it  is  the  day  to  which 
belongs  the  night  that  has  been  selected  for  Lady  Chetwoode's 
ball ;  all  which  sounds  very  like  the  metre  of  the  house  that 
Jack  built. 

Well,  never  mind  I  This  ball  promises  to  be  a  great  suc- 
cess. Everybody  who  is  anybody  is  going,  from  George 
Beatoun,  who  has  only  five  hundred  pounds  a  year  in  the 
world,  and  the  oldest  blood  in  the  county,  to  the  duchess,  who 
"  fiincies"  Lilian  Chetwoode,  and  has,  in  fact,  adopted  her  aa 
her  last  "  rave."  Nobody  has  been  forgotten,  nobody  is  to  be 
chagrined :  to  guard  against  this  has  cost  both  Sir  Guy  and 
Lilian  Chetwoode  many  an  hour  of  anxious  thought. 

To  Mona,  however,  the  idea  of  this  dance  is  hardly  pure 
nectar.  It  is  half  a  terror,  half  a  joy.  She  is  nervous, 
frightened,  and  a  little  strange.  It  is  the  first  time  she  has 
ever  been  to  any  large  entertainment,  and  she  cannot  help 
looking  forward  to  her  own  debUt  with  a  longing  mingled 
largely  with  dread. 

Now,  as  the  hour  approaches  that  is  to  bring  her  face  to 
face  with  half  the  county,  her  heart  fails  her,  and  almost  with 
a  sense  of  wonder  she  contrasts  her  present  life  with  the  old 
one  in  her  emerald  isle,  where  she  lived  happily,  if  with  a 
certain  dulness,  in  her  uncle's  farm-house. 

All  day  long  the  rain  has  been  pouring,  pouring  ;  not  loudly 
or  boisterously,  not  dashing  itself  with  passionate  force  against 
pane  and  gable,  but  falling  with  a  silent  and  sullen  persistency. 

"  No  walks  abroad  to-night,"  says  Mr.  Darling,  in  a  dismal 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  181 

tone,  stanng  in  an  injured  fashion  upon  the  drenched  lawns 
and  pZeasai/ftce.s  outside.  "  No  Cliiuese  lanterns,  no  friendly 
shrubberies, — nothing  /" 

Each  window  presents  an  aspect  in  a  degree  more  dreary 
than  the  last, — or  so  it  appears.  The  flower-beds  are  beaten 
down,  and  are  melancholy  in  the  extreme.  The  laurels  do 
nothing  but  drip,  drip,  in  a  sad  aside,  "  making  mournful 
music  for  the  mind."  Whilst  up  and  down  the  elm  walk  the 
dreary  wind  goes  madly,  sporting  and  playing  with  the  rain- 
drops, as  it  rashes  here  and  there. 

Indoors  King  Bore  stalks  rampant.  Nobody  seems  in  very 
merry  mood.  Even  Nolly,  who  is  generally  game  for  any- 
thing, is  a  prey  to  despair.  He  has,  for  the  last  hour,  lost 
eight  of  Mona  ! 

""  Let  us  do  something,  anything,  to  get  rid  of  some  of 
these  interminable  hours,"  says  Doatie,  flinging  her  book  far 
from  her.  It  is  not  interesting,  and  only  helps  to  add  insult 
to  injury.  She  yawns  as  much  as  breeding  will  permit,  and 
then  crosses  her  hands  behind  her  dainty  head.  "  Oh  !  here 
comes  Mona.  Mona,  I  am  so  bored  that  I  shall  die  presently, 
unless  you  suggest  a  remedy." 

*'  Your  brother  is  better  at  suggestions  than  I  am,"  says 
Mona,  gently,  who  is  always  somewhat  subdued  when  in  the 
room  with  Lady  Rodney. 

"  Nolly,  do  you  hear  (hat  ?  Come  over  to  the  fire  directly, 
and  cease  counting  those  hateful  rain-drops.  Mona  believes 
in  you.  Isn't  that  joyful  news  ?  Now  get  out  of  your  moody 
fit  at  once,  like  a  dear  boy." 

"  I  sha'n't,"  says  ]\Ir.  Darling,  in  an  aggrieved  tone.  "  I 
feel  slighted.  IMrs.  Rodney  has  of  malice  prepense  secluded 
herself  from  public  gaze  at  least  for  an  hour.  I  can't  forget 
all  that  in  one  moment." 

"  Where  have  you  been  ?"  asks  Lady  Rodney,  slowly, 
turning  her  head  to  look  at  Mona.  "  Out  of  doors?"  Hei 
tone  is  unpleasant. 

"  No.     In  my  own  room,"  says  Mona. 

"  Oh,  Nolly  !  do  think  of  some  plan  to  cheat  the  afternoon 
of  an  hour  or  two,"  persists  Doatie,  eagerly. 

"  I  have  it,"  says  her  brother,  with  all  the  air  of  one  who 
has  discovered  a  new  continent.  "  Let's  talk  of  graves,  of 
worms,  and  epitaphs." 

16 


182  MRS.   GEOFFREY. 

At  this  Dontie  turns  her  back  on  him,  while  Mona  breaks 
into  a  peal  of  silvery  laughter. 

"  Would  you  not  like  to  do  that?"  demands  Nolly,  sadly. 
*'  I  should.     I'm  quite  in  the  humor  for  it." 

"  I  am  afraid  we  are  not,"  says  Violet,  smiling  too.  "  Think 
of  something  else." 

"  Well,  if  you  all  toill  insist  upon  a  change,  and  iesir«> 
something  more  lively,  then, — 

'For  heaven's  sake,  let  us  sit  upon  the  ground, 
And  tell  sad  stories  of  the  death  of  kings.' 

Perhaps  after  all  you  are  right,  and  that  will  be  better.  It 
will  be  rather  effective,  too,  if  uncomfortable,  our  all  sitting  on 
the  polished  floor." 

"  Fancy  Nolly  quoting  Shakspeare,"  says  Geoffrey,  who  has 
just  entered,  and  is  now  leaning  over  Mona's  chair.  He  stoops 
and  whispers  something  in  her  ear  that  makes  her  flush  and 
glance  appealingly  at  Doatie.  Whereon  Miss  Darling,  who  is 
quick  to  sympathize,  rises,  and  soon  learns  what  the  whisper 
has  been  about. 

"  Oh  !  how  charming  !"  she  cries,  clapping  her  hands.  "  The 
very  thing !  Why  did  we  not  think  ol'  it  before  ?  To  teach 
Mona  the  last  new  step  !  It  will  be  delicious."  Good-natured 
Doatie,  as  she  says  this,  springs  to  her  feet  and  runs  her  hand 
into  Mona's.  "  Come,"  she  says.  "  Before  to-night,  I  promise 
you,  you  shall  rival  Terpsichore  herself 

"  Yes,  she  certainly  must  learn  before  to-night,"  says  Violet, 
with  sudden  and  unexpected  interest,  folding  and  putting  away 
her  work  as  though  bent  on  other  employment.  "  Let  us 
come  into  the  ball-room." 

"  Do  you  know  no  other  dances  but  those — er — very  Irish 

f)erformances  ?"  asks  Lady  Rodney,  in  a  supercilious  tone,  al- 
uding  to  the  country  dance  IMona  and  Geoffrey  had  gone 
through  on  the  night  of  Doatie's  arrival. 

"  No.  I  have  never  been  to  a  ball  in  all  my  life,"  says  Mona, 
distinctly.  But  she  pales  a  little  at  the  note  of  contempt  in 
the  other's  voice.  Unconsciously  she  moves  a  few  steps  nearer 
to  Geoffrey,  and  holds  out  her  hand  to  him  in  a  childish  en- 
treating fashion. 

He  clasps  it  and  presses  it  lightly  but  fondly  to  his  lips. 
Elis  brow  darkens.     The  little  stern  expression,  so  seldom  seen 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  183 

upon  his  kindly  face,  but  which  is  inherited  from  his  father, 
creeps  up  now  and  alters  him  perceptibly. 

"  You  mistake  my  mother,"  he  says  to  Mona,  in  a  peculiar 
tone,  looking  at  Lady  Rodney,  not  at  her.  "  My  wife  is,  I  am 
sure,  the  last  person  she  would  choose  to  be  rude  to ;  though, 
I  confess,  her  manner  just  now  would  mislead  most  people." 

With  the  frown  still  on  his  forehead,  he  draws  Mona's  hand 
through  his  arm,  and  leads  her  from  the  room. 

Lady  Rodney  has  turned  pale.  Otherwise  she  betrays  no 
sign  of  chagrin,  though  in  her  heart  she  feels  deeply  the  re- 
buke administered  by  this,  her  favorite  son.  To  have  Mona 
be  a  witness  of  her  defeat  is  gall  and  wormwood  to  her.  And 
silently,  without  any  outward  gesture,  she  registers  a  vow  to 
be  revenged  for  the  insult  (as  she  deems  it)  that  has  just  been 
put  upon  her. 

Dorothy  Darling,  who  has  been  listening  anxiously  to  all 
that  has  passed,  and  who  is  very  grieved  thereat,  now  speaks 
boldly. 

"  I  am  afraid,"  she  says  to  Lady  Rodney,  quite  calmly, 
having  a  little  way  of  her  owu  of  introducing  questionable 
topics  without  giving  oflfence, — "  I  am  afraid  you  do  not  like 
Mona?" 

x\t  this  Lady  Rodney  flings  down  her  guard  and  her  work 
at  the  same  time,  and  rises  to  her  feet. 

"  Like  her,"  she  says,  with  suppressed  vehemence.  "  How 
should  I  like  a  woman  who  has  stolen  from  me  my  son,  and 
who  can  teach  him  to  be  rude  even  to  his  own  mother?" 

"  Oh,  Lady  Rodney,  I  am  sure  she  did  not  mean  to  do  that." 

"  I  don't  care  what  she  meant ;  she  has  at  all  events  done 
it.  Like  her  I  A  person  who  speaks  of  '  Jack  Robinson,' 
and  talks  of  the  '  long  and  the  short  of  it.'  How  could  you 
imagine  such  a  thing !  As  for  you,  Dorothy,  I  can  only  feel 
regret  that  you  should  so  far  forget  yourself  as  to  rush  into  a 
friendship  with  a  young  woman  so  thoroughly  out  of  your 
own  sphere." 

Having  delivered  herself  of  this  speech,  she  sweeps  from 
the  room,  leaving  Violet  and  Dorothy  slightly  nonplussed. 

"  Well,  I  never  heard  anything  so  absurd  I"  says  Doatie, 
presently,  recovering  her  breath,  and  opening  her  big  eyes  to 
their  widest.  "  Such  a  tirade,  and  all  for  nothing.  If  say- 
ing '  Jack  Robinson'  is  a  social  crime,  T  must  be  the  biggest 


184  MRS.  GEOFFREY. 

sinner  living,  as  I  say  it  just  when  I  like.  I  think  Mona 
adorable,  and  so  does  every  one  else.     Don't  you  ?" 

"  I  am  not  sure.  I  don't  fall  in  love  with  people  at  first 
sight.  I  am  slow  to  read  character,"  says  Violet,  calmly. 
"  You,  perhaps,  possess  that  gift  ?" 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it,  my  dear.  I  only  say  to  myself,  such  and 
such  a  person  has  kind  eyes  or  a  loving  mouth,  and  then  I 
make  up  my  mind  to  them.  I  am  seldom  disappointed  ;  but 
as  to  reading  or  studying  character,  that  isn't  in  my  line  at 
all.  It  positively  isn't  in  me.  But  don't  you  think  Lady 
Rodney  is  unjust  to  Mona?" 

"  Yes,  I  think  she  is.  But  of  course  there  are  many  ex- 
cuses to  be  made  for  her.  An  Irish  girl  of  no  family  what- 
ever, no  matter  how  sweet,  is  not  the  sort  of  person  one  would 
select  as  a  wife  for  one's  son.  Come  to  the  ball-room.  I  want 
to  make  Mona  perfect  in  dancing." 

"  You  want  to  make  her  a  success  to-night,"  says  Dorothy, 
quickly.  "  I  know  you  do.  You  are  a  dear  thing,  Violet,  if 
a  little  difficult.  And  I  verily  believe  you  have  fallen  as  great 
a  victim  to  the  charms  of  this  Irish  siren  '  without  family'  as 
any  of  us.     Come,  confess  it." 

"  There  is  nothing  to  confess.  I  think  her  very  much  to 
be  liked,  if  you  mean  that,"  says  Violet,  slowly. 

"  She  is  a  perfect  pet,"  says  Miss  Darling,  with  emphasis, 
"  and  you  know  it." 

Then  they  adjourn  to  the  ball-room,  and  Sir  Nicholas  is 
pressed  into  the  service,  and  presently  Jack  Rodney,  discover- 
ing where  Violet  is,  drops  in  too,  and  after  a  bit  dancing  be- 
comes universal.  Entering  into  the  spirit  of  the  thing,  they 
take  their  "  preliminary  canter"  now,  as  Nolly  expresses  it,  as 
though  to  get  into  proper  training  for  the  Chetwoodes'  ball 
later  on.  And  they  all  dance  with  Mona,  and  show  a  great 
desire  that  she  shall  not  be  found  wanting  when  called  upon 
by  the  rank,  beauty,  and  fashion  of  Lauderdale  to  trip  it  on 
the  "  light  fantastic  toe." 

Even  Jack  Rodney  comes  out  of  himself,  and,  conquering 
his  habitual  laziness,  takes  her  in  hand,  and,  as  being  the  best 
dancer  present,  j^ar  excellence,  teaches  and  tutors  and  encour- 
ages her  until  Doatie  cries  "  enough,"  and  protests  with  pathos 
she  will  have  no  more  of  it,  as  she  is  not  going  to  be  cut  out 
by  Mona  at  all  events  in  the  dancing  line. 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  185 

So  the  day  wears  to  evening ;  and  the  rain  ceases,  and  the 
sullen  clouds  scud  with  a  violent  haste  across  the  tired  sky. 
Then  the  stars  come  out,  first  slowly,  one  by  one,  as  though 
timid  early  guests  at  the  great  gathering,  then  with  a  brilliant 
rush,  until  all  the  sky, 

"Bespangled  with  those  isles  of  light 
So  wildly,  spiritually  bright," 

shows  promise  of  a  fairer  morrow. 

Mona,  coming  slowly  down-stairs,  enters  with  lagging  steps 
the  library,  where  tea  is  awaiting  them  before  they  start. 

She  is  gowned  in  a  cream-colored  satin  that  hangs  in  severe 
straight  lines,  and  clings  to  her  lissom  rounded  figure  as  dew 
clings  to  a  flower.  A  few  rows  of  tiny  pearls  clasp  her  neck. 
Upon  her  bosom  some  Christmas  roses,  pure  and  white  as  her 
own  soul,  lie  softly  ;  a  few  more  nestle  in  her  hair,  which  is 
drawn  simply  back  and  coiled  in  a  loose  knot  behind  her 
head  ;  she  wears  no  ear-rings  and  very  few  bracelets. 

One  of  tlie  latter,  however,  is  worthy  of  note.  It  is  a  plain 
gold  band  on  which  stands  out  a  figure  of  Atalanta  posed  as 
when  slie  started  for  her  famous  race.  It  had  been  sent  to 
her  on  her  marriage  by  Mr.  Maxwell,  in  hearty  remembrance, 
no  doubt,  of  the  night  when  she  by  her  fleetness  had  saved 
his  life. 

She  is  looking  very  beautiful  to-night.  As  she  enters  the 
room,  nearly  every  one  stops  talking,  and,  careless  of  good 
breeding,  stares  at  her.  There  is  a  touch  of  purity  about 
Mona  that  is  perhaps  one  of  her  chiefest  charms. 

Even  Lady  Kodney  can  hardly  take  her  eyes  from  the  girl's 
face  as  she  advances  beneath  the  full  glare  of  the  chandelier, 
utterly  unconscious  of  the  extent  of  the  beauty  that  is  her 
rich  gift. 

Sir  Nicholas,  going  up  to  her,  takes  her  by  both  hands,  and 
leads  her  gently  beneath  the  huge  bunch  of  mistletoe  that  still 
hangs  from  the  centre-lamp.  Here,  stooping,  he  embraces  her 
warmly.  Mona,  coloring,  shrinks  involuntarily  a  few  steps 
backward. 

"  Forgive  me,  my  sister,"  says  Nicholas,  quickly.  "  Not 
the  kiss,  but  the  fact  that  until  now  I  never  quite  understood 
how  very  beautiful  you  are  I" 

Mona  smiles  brightly — as  might  any  true  woman — at  so 
16* 


186  MRS.  OEOFFRET. 

warm  a  compliment.  But  Doatie,  putting  on  a  pathetic  little 
mmie  that  just  suits  her  baby  face,  walks  over  to  her  fianc6 
and  looks  up  at  him  with  appealing  eyes. 

"  Don't  altogether  forget  me,  Nicholas,"  she  says,  in  her 
pretty  childish  way,  pretending  (little  rogue  that  she  is)  to  be 
offended. 

"  You,  my  own !"  responds  Nicholas,  in  a  very  low  tone, 
that  of  course  means  everything,  and  necessitates  a  withdrawal 
into  the  curtained  recess  of  the  window,  where  whisperings 
may  be  unheard. 

Then  the  carriages  are  announced,  and  every  one  finishes  his 
and  her  tea,  and  many  shawls  are  caught  up,  and  presently  all 
are  driving  rapidly  beneath  the  changeful  moon  to  Chetwoode. 

Now,  strange  as  it  may  seem,  the  very  moment  Mona  set3 
her  foot  upon  the  polished  ball-room  floor,  and  sees  the  lights, 
and  hears  the  music,  and  the  distant  splashing  of  water  in 
some  unknown  spot,  and  breathes  the  breath  of  dying  flowers, 
all  fears,  all  doubts,  vanish  ;  and  only  a  passionate  desire  to 
dance,  and  be  in  unison  with  the  sweet  sounds  that  move  the 
air,  overfills  her. 

Then  some  one  asks  her  to  dance,  and  presently — with  her 
face  lit  up  with  happy  excitement,  and  her  heart  throbbing — 
she  is  actually  mingling  with  the  gay  crowd  that  a  moment 
since  she  has  been  envying.  In  and  out  among  the  dancers 
they  glide,  Mona  so  happy  that  she  barely  has  time  for  thought, 
and  so  gives  herself  up  entirely  to  the  music  to  the  exclusion 
of  her  partner.  He  has  but  a  small  place  in  her  enjoyment. 
Perhaps,  indeed,  she  betrays  her  satisfaction  rather  more  than 
is  customary  or  correct  in  an  age  when  the  nil  admirari  sys- 
tem reigns  supreme.  Yet  there  are  many  in  the  room  who 
unconsciously  smile  in  sympathy  with  her  happy  smile,  and 
feel  warmed  by  the  glow  of  natural  gladness  that  animates  her 
breast. 

After  a  little  while,  pausing  beside  a  doorway,  she  casts  an 
upward  glance  at  her  companion. 

"  I  am  glad  you  have  at  last  deigned  to  take  some  small 
notice  of  me,"  says  he,  with  a  faint  touch  of  pique  in  his 
tone.  And  then,  looking  at  him  again,  she  sees  it  is  the 
young  man  who  had  nearly  ridden  over  her  some  time  ago, 
and  tells  herself  she  has  been  just  a  little  rude  to  his  Grace 
the  Duke  of  Lauderdale. 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  187 

"  And  I  went  to  the  utmost  trouble  to  get  an  introduction," 
goes  on  Lauderdale,  in  an  aggrieved  voice  ;  "  because  I  thought 
you  niiglit  not  care  about  that  impromptu  ceremony  at  the 
lodge-gates;  and  yet  what  do  I  receive  for  my  pains  but  dis- 
appointment?    Have  you  quite  forgotten  me?" 

"  No.  Of  course  I  remember  you  now,"  says  Mona,  taking 
all  this  nonsense  as  quite  bond  fide  sense,  in  a  maddeningly 
fascinating  fashion.  "  How  unkind  I  have  been  !  But  I  was 
listening  to  the  music,  not  to  our  introduction,  when  Sir  Nich- 
olas brought  you  up  to  me,  and — and  that  is  my  only  excuse." 
Then,  sweetly,  "  You  love  music  ?" 

"  Well,  I  do,"  says  the  duke.  "  But  I  say  that  perhaps  as 
a  means  of  defence.  If  I  said  otherwise,  you  might  think  me 
fit  only  '  for  treasons,  stratagems,  and  spoils.'  " 

"  Oh,  no !  you  don't  look  like  that,"  says  Mona,  with  a 
heavenly  smile.  "  You  do  not  seem  like  a  man  that  could 
not  be  '  trusted.'  " 

He  is  delighted  with  her  ready  response,  her  gaycty,  her 
Bweetness,  her  freshness  ;  was  there  ever  so  fair  a  face  ?  Every 
one  in  the  room  by  this  time  is  asking  who  is  the  duke's  part- 
ner, and  Lady  Chetwoode  is  beset  with  queries.  All  the  wo- 
men, except  a  very  few,  are  consumed  with  jealousy ;  all  the 
men  are  devoured  with  envy  of  the  duke.  Beyond  all  doubt 
the  pretty  Irish  bride  is  the  rage  of  the  hour. 

She  chatters  on  gayly  to  the  duke,  losing  sight  of  the  fact 
of  his  rank,  and  laughing  and  making  merry  with  him  as 
though  he  were  one  of  the  ordinary  friends  of  her  life.  And 
to  Lauderdale,  who  is  susceptible  to  beauty  and  tired  of  ad- 
ulation, such  manner  has  its  charm,  and  he  is  perhaps  losing 
his  head  a  little,  and  is  conning  a  sentence  or  two  of  a  slightly 
tender  nature,  when  another  partner  coming  up  claims  Mona, 
and  carries  her  away  from  what  might  prove  dangerous 
quarters. 

"  Malcolm,  who  was  that  lovely  creature  you  were  talking  to 
just  now  ?"  asks  his  mother,  as  Lauderdale  draws  near  her. 

"That?  Oh,  that  was  the  bride,  Mrs.  Rodney,"  replies 
he.     "  She  is  lovely,  if  you  like." 

"  Oh,  indeed  !"  says  the  duchess,  with  some  faint  surprise. 
Then  she  turns  to  Lady  Kodney,  who  is  near  her,  and  who  is 
looking  cold  and  supercilious.  "  I  congratulate  you,"  she 
says,  warmly.   "  What  a  face  that  child  has  1    Hew  charmine; ! 


188  MRS.  GEOFFREY. 

How  full  of  feeling  I  You  are  fortunate  in  securing  so  fair  a 
daughter." 

"  Thank  you,"  says  Lady  Rodney,  coldly,  letting  her  lids 
fall  over  her  eyes. 

"  I  am  sorry  I  have  missed  her  so  often,"  says  the  duchess, 
who  had  been  told  that  Mona  was  out  when  she  called  on  her 
the  second  time,  and  who  had  been  really  not  at  home  when 
Mona  returned  her  calls.  "  But  you  will  introduce  me  to  her 
soon,  I  hope." 

Just  at  this  moment  Mona  comes  up  to  them,  smiling  and 
happy. 

"  Ah  1  here  she  is,"  says  the  duchess,  looking  at  the  girl's 
bright  face  with  much  interest,  and  turning  graciously  tow- 
ards Mona.  And  then  nothing  remains  but  for  Lady  Rodney 
to  get  through  the  introduction  as  calmly  as  she  can,  though 
it  is  sorely  against  her  will,  and  the  duchess,  taking  her  hand, 
says  something  very  pretty  to  her,  while  the  duke  looks  on 
with  ill-disguised  admiration  in  his  face. 

They  are  all  standing  in  a  sort  of  anteroom,  curtained  off, 
but  only  partly  concealed  from  the  ball-room.  Young  Lady 
Cbetwoode,  who,  as  I  have  said,  is  a  special  pet  with  the 
duchess,  is  present,  with  Sir  Guy  and  one  or  two  others. 

"  You  must  give  me  another  dance,  Mrs.  Rodney,  before 
your  card  is  quite  full,"  says  the  duke,  smiling.  "  If,  indeed, 
I  am  yet  in  time." 

"  Yes,  quite  in  time,"  says  Mona.  Then  she  pauses,  look- 
ing at  him  so  earnestly  that  he  is  compelled  to  return  her 
gaze.  "  You  shall  have  another  dance,"  she  says,  in  her  clear 
voice,  that  is  perfectly  distinct  to  every  one  ;  "  but  you  must 
not  call  me  Mrs.  Rodney  :  I  am  only  Mrs.  Geoffrey  I" 

A  dead  silence  follows.  Lady  Rodney  raises  her  head, 
scenting  mischief  in  the  air. 

"  No  ?"  says  Lauderdale,  laughing.  "  But  why,  then  ? 
There  is  no  other  Mrs.  Rodney,  is  there  ?" 

"  No.  But  there  will  be  when  Captain  Rodney  marries. 
And  Lady  Rodney  says  I  have  no  claim  to  the  name  at  all. 
I  am  only  Mrs.  Geoffrey." 

She  says  it  all  quite  simply,  with  a  smile,  and  a  quick  blush 
that  arises  merely  from  the  effort  of  having  to  explain,  not 
from  the  explanation  itself  There  is  not  a  touch  of  malice 
in  her  soft  eyes  or  on  her  parted  lips. 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  189 

Lady  Ctetwoode  looks  at  her  fan  and  then  at  Sir  Guy. 
The  duchess,  with  a  grave  expression,  looks  at  Lady  Rodney. 
Can  her  old  friend  have  proved  herself  unkind  to  this  pretty 
stranger?  Can  she  have  already  shown  symptoms  of  that 
tyrannical  temper  which,  according  to  the  duchess,  is  Lady 
Rodney's  chief  bane?  She  says  nothing,  however,  but, 
moving  her  fan  with  a  beckoning  gesture,  draws  her  skirts 
aside,  and  motions  to  Mona  to  seat  herself  beside  her. 

Mona  obeys,  feeling  no  shrinking  from  the  kindly  stout  lady 
who  is  evidently  bent  on  being  "  all  things"  to  her.  It  does 
occur,  perhaps,  to  her  laughter-loving  mind  that  there  is  a 
paucity  of  nose  about  the  duchess,  and  a  rather  large  amount 
of  "too,  too  solid  flesh;"  but  she  smothers  all  such  iniqui- 
tous reflections,  and  commences  to  talk  with  her  gayly  and 
naturally. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

now  MONA  INTERVIEWS  THE  DUCHESS — AND  HOW  SHE 
SUSTAINS  CONVERSATION  WITH  THE  RODNEYS*  EVIL 
GENIUS. 

For  some  time  they  talk  together,  and  then  the  duchess, 
fearing  lest  she  may  be  keeping  Mrs.  Geoffrey  from  the  com- 
mon amusement  of  a  ball-room,  says,  gently, — 

"  You  are  not  dancing  much  ?" 

"  No,"  says  Mona,  shaking  her  head.  "  Not — not  to-night. 
I  shall  soon." 

"  But  why  not  to-night?"  asks  her  Grace,  who  has  noticed 
with  curiosity  the  girl's  refusal  to  dance  with  a  lanky  young 
man  in  a  hussar  uniform,  who  had  evidently  made  it  the  busi- 
ness of  the  evening  to  get  introduced  to  her.  Indeed,  for  an 
hour  he  had  been  feasting  his  eyes  upon  her  fresh  young 
beauty,  and,  having  gone  to  infinite  trouble  to  get  presented 
to  her,  had  been  rewarded  for  his  trouble  by  a  little  friendly 
smile,  a  shake  of  the  head,  and  a  distinct  but  kindly  refusal  to 
join  in  the  mazy  dance. 

"  But  why  ?"  asks  the  duchess. 

"  Because" — with  a  quick  blush — "  I  am  not  accustomed  to 


190  MRS.   GEOFFREY. 

dancing  much.  Indeed,  I  only  learned  to-day,  and  I  might 
not  be  able  to  dance  with  every  one." 

"  But  you  were  not  afraid  to  dance  with  Lauderdale,  my 
Bon  ?"  says  the  duchess,  looking  at  her. 

"  I  should  never  be  afraid  of  him,"  returns  Mona.  "  He 
has  kind  eyes.  He  is" — slowly  and  meditatively — "  very  like 
you." 

The  duchess  laughs. 

"  He  may  be,  of  course,"  she  says.  "  But  I  don't  like  to 
see  a  gay  child  like  you  sitting  still.  You  should  dance  every- 
thing for  the  night." 

"  Well,  as  I  say,  I  shall  soon,"  returns  Mona,  brightening, 
"  because  Geoffrey  has  promised  to  teach  me." 

"  If  I  were  '  Geoffrey,'  I  think  I  shouldn't,"  says  the 
duchess,  meaningly. 

"  No  ?"  raising  an  innocent  face.  "  Too  much  trouble, 
you  think,  perhaps.  But,  bless  you,  Geoffrey  wouldn't  mind 
that,  so  long  as  he  was  giving  me  pleasure."  At  which  answer 
the  duchess  is  very  properly  ashamed  of  both  herself  and  her 
speech. 

"  I  should  think  very  few  people  would  deem  it  a  trouble 
to  serve  you,"  she  says,  graciously.  "  And  perhaps,  after  all, 
you  don't  much  care  about  dancing." 

"  Yes,  I  do,"  says  Mona,  truthfully.  "  Just  now,  at  least. 
Perhaps" — sadly — "  when  I  am  your  age  I  sha'n't." 

This  is  a  hetise  of  the  first  water.  And  Lady  Rodney, 
who  can  hear — and  is  listening  to — every  word,  almost  groans 
aloud. 

The  duchess,  on  the  contrary,  gives  way  to  mirth,  and, 
leaning  back  in  her  chair,  laughs  softly  but  with  evident 
enjoyment.     Mona  contemplates  her  curiously,  pensively. 

"  What  have  I  said  ?"  she  asks,  half  plaintively.  "  You 
laugh,  yet  I  did  not  mean  to  be  funny.  Tell  me  what  I 
said." 

"  It  was  only  a  little  touch  of  nature,"  explains  her  Grace. 
"  On  that  congratulate  yourself  Nature  is  at  a  discount 
these  days.  And  I — I  love  nature.  It  is  so  rare ;  a  veritable 
philosopher's  stone.  You  only  told  me  what  my  glass  tells 
me  daily, — that  I  am  not  so  young  as  I  once  was, — that,  in 
fact,  when  sitting  next  pretty  children  like  you,  I  am  quite 
old." 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  191 

"  Did  I  say  all  that  ?"  asks  Mrs.  Geoffrey,  with  wide  eyes. 
*'  Indeed,  I  think  you  mistake.  Old  people  have  wrinkles,  and 
they  do  not  talk  as  you  do.  And  when  one  is  sweet  to  look 
at,  one  is  never  old." 

To  pay  a  compliment  perfectly  one  must,  I  think,  have  at 
least  a  few  drops  of  Irish  blood  in  one's  veins.  As  a  rule, 
the  happy-go-lucky  people  of  Ireland  can  bring  themselves 
to  believe  thoroughly,  and  without  hypocrisy,  in  almost  any- 
thing for  the  time  being, — can  fling  themselves  heart  and 
soul  into  their  flatteries,  and  come  out  of  them  again  as  vic- 
tors. And  what  other  nation  is  capable  of  this?  To  make 
sweet  phrases  is  one  thing ;  to  look  as  if  you  felt  or  meant 
them  is  quite  another. 

The  little  suspicion  of  blarney  trips  softly  and  naturally 
from  Mona's  tongue.  She  doesn't  smile  as  she  speaks,  but 
looks  with  eyes  full  of  flattering  conviction  at  the  stout  but 
comely  duchess.  And  in  truth  it  may  be  that  in  Mona's  eyes 
she  is  sweet  to  look  at,  in  that  she  has  been  kind  and  tender 
towards  her  in  her  manner. 

And  the  duchess  is  charmed,  pleased  beyond  measure. 
That  faint  touch  about  the  wrinkles  was  the  happiest  of  the 
happy.  Only  that  morning  her  Grace,  in  spite  of  her  unap- 
proachable maid  and  unlimited  care,  had  seen  an  additional 
line  around  her  mouth  that  had  warned  her  of  youth's  decline, 
and  now  to  meet  some  one  oblivious  of  this  line  is  sweet  to 
her. 

"  Then  you  didn't  go  out  much  in  Ireland  ?"  she  says, 
thinking  it  more  graceful  to  change  the  conversation  at  this 
point. 

"  Out  ?     Oh,  ever  so  much,"  says  Mrs.  Geoffrey. 

"  Ah  !"  says  the  duchess,  feeling  puzzled.  "  Then  perhaps 
they  don't  dance  in  Ireland  ?" 

*'  Yes,  they  do  indeed,  a  great  deal ;  at  least  I  have  heard 

80." 

"  Then  I  suppose  when  there  you  were  too  young  to  go 
out?"  pursues  the  poor  duchess,  striving  for  information. 

"  I  wasn't,"  says  Mona  :  "  I  went  out  a  great  deal.  All  day 
long  I  was  in  the  open  air.  That  is  what  made  my  hands  so 
brown  last  autumn." 

"  Were  they  brown?" 

"  As  berries,"  says  Mona,  genially. 


192  MRS.  GEOFFREY. 

"  At  least  they  are  a  pretty  shape,"  says  the  duchess,  glanc- 
ing at  the  slim  little  hands  lying  gloved  in  their  owner's  lap. 
"  But  I  don't  think  you  quite  understood  the  '  going  out'  in 
the  light  that  1  did.     I  mean,  did  you  go  much  into  society  ?" 

"  There  wasn't  much  society  to  go  into,"  says  Mona,  "  and 
I  was  only  fifteen  when  staying  with  Aunt  Anastasia.  She," 
confidentially,  "  made  rather  a  grand  match  for  us,  you  know." 
(lisdy  Rodney  grinds  her  teeth,  and  tells  herself  she  is  on  the 
point  of  fainting.)  "  She  married  the  Provost  of  Trinity 
College ;  but  I  don't  think  he  did  her  any  good.  She  is  the 
oddest  old  thing !  Even  to  think  of  her  now  makes  me 
laugh.  You  should  have  seen  her,"  says  Mrs.  Geofi"rey,  lean- 
ing back  in  her  chair,  and  giving  way  to  her  usual  merry 
laugh,  that  rings  like  a  peal  of  silver  bells,  "  with  her  wig 
that  had  little  curls  all  over  it,  and  her  big  poke-bonnet  like  a 
coal-scuttle!" 

"  Well,  I  really  wish  I  had  seen  her,"  says  the  good- 
humored  duchess,  smiling  in  sympathy,  and  beginning  to  feel 
herself  more  capable  of  thorough  enjoyment  than  she  has 
been  for  years.  "  Was  she  witty,  as  all  Irish  people  are  said 
to  be?" 

"  Oh,  dear,  no,"  says  Mona,  with  an  emphatic  shake  of  her 
lovely  head.     "  She  hadn't  the  least  little  bit  of  wit  in  her 

composition.     She  was  as  solemn  as  an  Eng 1  mean  a 

Spaniard  (they  are  all  solemn,  are  they  not?),  and  never  made 
a  joke  in  her  life,  but  she  was  irresistibly  comic  all  the  same." 
Then  suddenly,  "  What  a  very  pretty  little  woman  that  is  over 
there,  and  what  a  lovely  dress !" 

"  Very  pretty  indeed,  and  quite  good  taste  and  that.  She's 
a  Mrs.  Lennox,  and  her  husband  is  our  master  of  the  hounds. 
She  is  always  quite  correct  in  the  matter  of  clothes."  There 
is  an  awful  reservation  in  her  Grace's  tone,  which  is  quite  lost 
upon  Mona.  "  But  she  is  by  no  means  little  in  her  own 
opinion,  and  in  fact  rather  prides  herself  upon  her — er — form 
generally,"  concludes  the  duchess,  so  far  at  a  loss  for  a  word 
as  to  be  obliged  to  fall  back  upon  slang. 

"  Her  form  !"  says  Mrs.  Geofirey,  surveying  the  tiny  Mrs. 
Lennox  from  head  to  foot  in  sheer  wonderment.  "  She  need 
hardly  pride  herself  on  that.  She  hasn't  much  of  it,  has 
Bhc?" 

"  Yes, — in  her  own  estimation,"  says  the  duchess,  some- 


MRS.   GEOFFREY.  193 

what  severely,  whose  crowning  horror  is  a  frisky  matron,  to 
which  title  little  Mrs.  Lennox  may  safely  lay  claim. 

"  "Well,  I  confess  that  puzzles  me,"  says  Mona,  knitting  her 
straight  brows  and  scanning  the  small  lady  before  her  with 
earnest  eyes,  who  is  surrounded  by  at  least  a  dozen  men,  with 
all  of  whom  she  is  conversing  without  any  apparent  eflFort. 
"  I  really  think  she  is  the  smallest  woman  I  ever  saw.  Why, 
I  im  only  medium  height,  but  surely  I  could  make  two  of 
her.  At  least  I  have  more  figure,  or  form,  as  you  call  it,  than 
she  has." 

The  duchess  gives  it  up.  "  Yes,  and  a  far  better  one,  too," 
she  says,  amiably,  declining  to  explain.  Indeed,  she  is  de- 
lighted to  meet  a  young  woman  who  actually  regards  slang  as 
a  foreign  and  unstudied  language,  and  shrinks  from  being  the 
first  to  help  her  to  forget  the  English  tongue.  "  Is  there 
much  beauty  in  Ireland  ?"  she  asks,  presently. 

"  Yes,  but  we  are  all  so  different  from  the  English.  We 
have  no  pretty  fair  hair  in  Ireland,  or  at  least  very  little  of  it." 

"  Do  you  admire  our  hair?  And  we  are  all  so  heartily 
tired  of  it,"  says  the  duchess.  "  Well,  tell  me  more  about 
your  own  land.  Are  the  women  all  like  you  ?  In  style,  I 
mean.  I  have  seen  a  few,  of  course,  but  not  enough  to  de- 
scribe a  whole." 

"Like  me?  Oh,  no,"  says  Mrs.  Geoffrey.  "Some  of 
them  are  really  beautiful,  like  pictures.  When  I  was  staying 
with  Aunt  Anastasia — the  Provost's  wife,  you  remember — I 
saw  a  great  many  pretty  people.  I  saw  a  great  many  students, 
too,"  says  Mona,  brightening,  "  and  liked  them  very  much. 
They  liked  me,  too." 

"  How  strange !"  says  the  duchess,  with  an  amused  smile. 
"  Are  you  quite  sure  of  that?" 

"  Oh,  quite.  They  used  to  take  me  all  over  the  college,  and 
sometimes  to  the  bands  in  the  squares.  They  were  very  good 
to  me." 

"  They  would  be,  of  course,"  says  the  duchess. 

'*  But  they  were  troublesome,  very  troublesome,"  says  Mrs. 
Geoffrey,  with  a  retrospective  sigh,  leaning  back  in  her  chair 
and  folding  her  hands  together  on  her  lap.  "  You  can't 
imagine  what  a  worry  they  were  at  times, — always  ringing  the 
college  bell  at  the  wrong  hours,  and  getting  tight  1" 

"  Getting  what?"  asLj  the  duchess,  somewhat  taken  aback. 
I        n  17 


194  MRS.  GEOFFREY. 

"  Tight, — screwed, — tipsy,  you  know,"  replies  Mona,  inno- 
cently. "  Tight  was  the  word  they  taught  me.  I  think  they 
believed  it  sounded  more  respectable  than  the  others.  And 
the  Divinity  boys  were  the  worst  Shall  I  tell  you  about 
them  ?" 

"  Do  1"  says  the  duchess. 

"  Well,  three  of  them  used  to  come  to  see  Aunt  Anastasia ; 
at  least  they  said  it  was  auntie,  but  they  never  spoke  to  her 
if  they  could  help  it,  and  were  always  so  glad  when  she  went 
to  sleep  after  dinner." 

"  I  think  your  aunt  Anastasia  was  very  good  to  them,"  says 
the  duchess. 

"  But  after  a  bit  they  grew  very  tiresome.  When  I  tell  you 
they  all  three  proposed  to  me  every  day  for  a  week,  you  will 
understand  me.  Yet  even  that  we  could  have  borne,  though 
it  was  very  expensive,  because  they  used  to  go  about  stealing 
my  gloves  and  my  ribbons,  but  when  they  took  to  punching 
each  other's  heads  about  me  auntie  said  I  had  better  go  to 
Uncle  Brian  for  a  while :  so  I  went ;  and  there  I  met  Geof- 
frey," with  a  brilliant  smile. 

"  I  think  Geoffrey  owes  those  Divinity  boys  more  than  he 
can  ever  pay,"  says  the  duchess,  very  prettily.  "  You  must 
come  and  see  me  soon,  child.  I  am  an  old  woman,  and  seldom 
stir  from  home,  except  when  I  am  positively  ordered  out  by 
Malcolm,  as  I  was  to-night.  Come  next  Thursday.  There  are 
some  charming  trifles  at  the  old  Court  that  may  amuse  you, 
though  I  may  fail  to  do  so." 

"  I  sha'n't  want  any  trifles  to  amuse  me,  if  you  will  talk  to 
me,"  says  Mona. 

"  Well,  come  early.  And  now  go  and  danoe  with  Mr. 
Darling.  He  has  been  looking  at  me  very  angrily  for  the  last 
three  minutes.  By  the  by,"  putting  up  her  glasses,  "  is  thai 
little  girl  in  the  lemon-colored  gown  his  sister  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  that  is  Sir  Nicholas's  Doatie  Darling,"  returns  Mona, 
with  a  light  laugh.  And  then  Nolly  leads  her  away,  and, 
feeling  more  confident  with  him,  she  is  once  again  dancing  as 
gayly  as  the  best. 

"  Your  foot  is  plainly  •  on  your  native  heath,' "  says  Nolly, 
"  though  your  name  may  not  be  '  McGregor.'  What  on  earth 
were  you  saying  to  that  old  woman  for  the  last  four  hours  ?" 

*'  It  was  only  twenty  minutes,"  says  Mona. 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  195 

"  Twenty  minutes  !  By  Jove,  she  must  be  more  interesting 
than  we  thought,"  says  Mr.  Darjing,  '•  if  you  can  put  it  at 
that  time.  I  thought  she  was  going  to  eat  you,  she  looked  so 
pleased  with  you.  And  no  wonder,  too  I"  with  a  loud  and  a 
hearty  sigh. 

*'  She  was  very  nice  to  me,"  says  Mona,  "and  is,  I  think,  a 
very  pleasant  old  lady.  She  asked  me  to  go  and  see  her  next 
Thursday." 

"  Bless  my  stars  !"  says  Nolly ;  "  you  have  been  going  it. 
That  is  the  day  on  which  she  will  receive  no  one  but  her  chief 
pets.  The  duchess,  when  she  comes  down  here,  reverses  the 
order  of  things.  The  rest  have  an  '  at  home'  day.  She  has 
a  '  not  at  home'  day." 

"  Where  are  people  when  they  are  not  at  home  ?"  asks 
Mona,  simply. 

"  That's  the  eighth  wonder  of  the  world,"  says  Mr.  Dar- 
ling, mysteriously.  "  It  has  never  yet  been  discovered.  Don't 
seek  to  pry  too  closely  into  it ;  you  might  meet  with  a  rebuff." 

"  How  sad  Nicholas  looks !"  says  Mona,  suddenly. 

In  a  doorway,  somewhat  out  of  the  cru.sh.  Sir  Nicholas  is 
standing.  His  eyes  are  fixed  on  Dorothy,  who  is  laughing 
with  a  gay  and  gallant  plunger  in  the  distance.  He  is  looking 
depressed  and  melancholy ;  a  shadow  seems  to  have  fallen  into 
his  dark  eyes. 

"  Now  he  is  thinking  of  that  horrid  lawsuit  again,"  says 
Nolly,  regretfully,  who  is  a  really  good  sort  all  round.  "  Let 
us  go  to  him." 

"  Yes ;  let  me  go  to  him,"  says  Mona,  quickly ;  "  I  shall 
know  what  to  say  better  than  you." 

After  a  little  time  she  succeeds  in  partially  lif\:ing  the  cloud 
that  has  fallen  on  her  brother.  He  has  grown  strangely  fond 
of  her,  and  finds  comfort  in  her  gentle  eyes  and  sympathetic 
mouth.  Like  all  the  rest,  he  has  gone  down  before  Mona,  and 
found  a  place  for  her  in  his  heart.  He  is  laughing  at  some 
merry  absurdity  of  hers,  and  is  feeling  braver,  more  hopeful, 
when  a  little  chill  seems  to  pass  over  him,  and,  turning,  he 
confronts  a  tall  dark  young  man  who  has  come  leisurely — but 
with  a  purpose — to  where  he  and  Mona  are  standing. 

It  is  Paul  Rodney. 

Sir  Nicholas,  just  moving  his  glass  from  one  eye  to  the 
Other,  says  "  Good-evening"  to  him,  bending  his  head  courts- 


196  MRS.  GEOFFREY. 

ously,  nay,  very  civilly,  though  without  a  touch  or  suspicioa 
of  fVicndliuess.  He  does  not  put  out  his  hand,  however,  and 
Paul  llodney,  having  acknowledged  his  salutation  by  a  bow 
colder  and  infinitely  more  distant  than  his  own,  turns  to 
Mona. 

"  You  have  not  quite  forgotten  me,  I  hope,  Mrs.  Rodney. 
You  will  give  me  one  dance  ?" 

His  eyes,  black  and  faintly  savage,  seem  to  burn  into  hers. 

''  No  ;  I  have  not  forgotten  you,"  says  Mona,  shrinking  away 
from  him.     As  she  speaks  she  looks  nervously  at  Nicholas. 

''  Go  and  dance,  my  dear,"  he  says,  quickly,  in  a  tone  that 
decides  her.  It  is  to  please  him,  for  his  sake,  she  must  do 
this  thing ;  and  so,  without  any  awkward  hesitation,  yet  with- 
out undue  haste,  she  turns  and  lays  her  hand  on  the  Australian's 
arm.  A  few  minutes  later  she  is  floating  round  the  room  in 
his  arms,  and,  passing  by  Geoff"rey,  though  she  sees  him  not, 
is  seen  by  him. 

"Nicholas,  what  is  the  meaning  of  this?"  says  Geofi"rey,  a 
few  moments  later,  coming  up  with  a  darkening  brow  to 
where  Nicholas  is  leaning  against  a  wall.  "  What  has  pos- 
sessed Mona  to  give  that  fellow  a  dance  ?  She  must  be  mad, 
or  ignorant,  or  forgetful  of  everything.  She  was  with  you : 
why  did  you  not  prevent  it?" 

"  My  dear  fellow,  let  well  alone,"  says  Nicholas,  with  his 
slow,  peculiar  smile,  "  It  was  I  induced  Mona  to  dance  with 
*  that  fellow,'  as  you  call  him.  Forgive  me  this  injury,  if  in- 
deed you  count  it  one." 

"  I  don't  understand  you,"  says  Geofi"rey,  still  rather  hotly. 

"  I  think  I  hardly  understand  myself:  yet  I  know  I  am 
possessed  of  a  morbid  horror  lest  the  county  should  think  I 
am  uncivil  to  this  man  merely  because  he  has  expressed  a 
hope  that  he  may  be  able  to  turn  me  out  of  doors.  His  hope 
may  be  a  just  one.  I  rather  think  it  is  :  so  it  pleased  me  tliat 
Mona  should  dance  with  him,  if  only  to  show  the  room  that 
he  is  not  altogether  tabooed  by  us." 

"  But  I  wish  it  had  been  any  one  but  Mona,"  says  Geoffrey, 
Btill  agitated. 

"  But  who  ?  Doatie  will  not  dance  with  him,  and  Vio- 
let he  never  asks.  I  fell  back,  then,  upon  the  woman  who 
has  so  little  malice  in  her  heart  that  she  could  not  be  ungra- 
cious to  any  one.     Against  her  will  she  read  my  desire  in  my 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  197 

eyes,  and  has  so  far  sacrificed  herself  for  my  sake.  I  had  no 
right  to  compel  your  wife  to  this  satisfying  of  my  vanity,  yet 
I  could  not  resist  it.     Forget  it ;  the  dance  will  soon  be  over." 

"  It  seems  horrible  to  me  that  Mona  should  be  on  friendly 
terms  with  your  enemy,"  says  Geoifrey,  passionately. 

"  He  is  not  my  enemy.  My  dear  boy,  spare  me  a  three-aot 
drama.  What  has  the  man  done,  beyond  wearing  a  few 
gaudy  rings,  and  some  oppressive  neckties,  that  you  should 
hate  him  as  you  do?  It  is  unreasonable.  And,  besides,  he 
is  in  all  probability  your  cousin.  Parkins  and  Slow  declare 
they  can  find  no  flaw  in  the  certificate  of  his  birth ;  and — ia 
not  every  man  at  liberty  to  claim  his  own  ?" 

"  If  he  claims  my  wife  for  another  dance,  I'll "  begins 

Geoffrey. 

"  No,  you  won't,"  interrupts  his  brother,  smiling.  "  Though 
I  think  the  poor  child  has  done  her  duty  now.  Let  him  pass. 
It  is  he  should  hate  me,  not  I  him." 

At  this  Geoffrey  says  something  under  his  breath  about 
Paul  Rodney  that  he  ought  not  to  say,  looking  the  while  at 
Nicholas  with  a  certain  light  in  his  blue  eyes  that  means  not 
only  admiration  but  affection. 

Meantime,  Mona,  having  danced  as  long  as  she  desires  with 
this  enemy  in  the  camp,  stops  abruptly  before  a  curtained  en- 
trance to  a  small  conservatory,  into  which  he  leads  her  before 
she  has  time  to  remonstrate:  indeed,  there  is  no  apparent 
reason  why  she  should. 

Her  companion  is  singularly  silent  Scarce  one  word  has 
escaped  him  since  she  first  laid  her  hand  upon  his  arm,  and 
now  again  dumbness,  or  some  hidden  feeling,  seals  his  lips. 
Of  this  Mona  is  glad.  She  has  no  desire  to  converse  with 
him,  and  is  just  congratulating  herself  upon  her  good  fortune 
In  that  he  decUnes  to  speak  with  her,  when  he  breaks  the  wel- 
come silence. 

"  Have  they  taught  you  to  hate  me  already  ?"  he  asks,  in 
a  low,  compressed  tone,  that  makes  her  nerves  assert  them- 
selves. 

"  I  have  been  taught  nothing,"  she  says,  with  a  most  suc- 
cessful grasp  at  dignity.  "  They  do  not  speak  of  you  at  the 
Towers, — at  lea.st,  not  unkindly."  She  looks  at  him  as  she 
Bays  this,  but  lowers  her  eyes  as  she  meets  his.  This  dark, 
vehement  young  man  almost  frightens  her, 

17* 


198  MRS.  GEOFFREY. 

"  Yet,  in  spite  of  what  you  say,  you  turn  from  me,  you 
despise  me,"  exclaims  he,  with  some  growing  excitement. 

"  Why  should  I  despise  you  ?"  asks  she,  slowly,  opening 
her  eyes. 

The  simple  query  confounds  him  more  than  might  a  more 
elaborate  one  put  by  a  clever  worldling.     Why,  indeed  ? 

"  I  was  thinking  about  this  impending  law-suit,"  he  stam 
mers,  uneasily.  "  You  know  of  it,  of  course  ?  Yet  why 
should  I  be  blamed  ?" 

"  No  one  blames  you,"  says  Mona ;  "  yet  it  ia  hard  that 
Nicholas  should  be  made  unhappy." 

"  Other  people  are  unhappy,  too,"  says  the  Australian, 
gloomily. 

"  Perhaps  they  make  their  own  unhappiness,"  says  Mona, 
at  random.  "  But  Nicholas  has  done  nothing.  He  is  good 
and  gentle  always.  He  knows  no  evil  thoughts.  He  wishes 
ill  to  no  man." 

"  Not  even  to  me  ?"  with  a  sardonic  laugh. 

"  Not  even  to  you,"  very  gravely.  There  is  reproof  in  her 
tone.  They  are  standing  somewhat  apart,  and  her  eyes  have 
been  turned  from  him.  Now,  as  she  says  this,  she  changes 
her  position  slightly,  and  looks  at  him  very  earnestly.  From 
the  distant  ball-room  the  sound  of  the  dying  music  comes  sadly, 
sweetly ;  a  weeping  fountain  in  a  corner  mourns  bitterly,  as  it 
seems  to  Mona,  tear  by  tear,  perhaps  for  some  lost  nymph. 

"  Well,  what  would  you  have  me  do  ?"  demands  he,  with 
some  passion.  "  Throw  up  everything  ?  Lands,  title,  posi- 
tion ?     It  is  more  than  could  be  expected  of  any  man." 

"  Much  more,"  says  Mona  ;  but  she  sighs  as  she  says  it,  and 
a  little  look  of  hopelessness  comes  into  her  face.  It  is  so  easy 
to  read  Mona's  face. 

"You  are  right,"  he  says,  with  growing  vehemence :  "no 
man  would  do  it.     It  is  such  a  brilliant  chance,  such  a  splendid 

scheme ."     He  checks  himself  suddenly.     Mona  looks  at 

him  curiously,  but  says  nothing.  In  a  second  he  recovers 
himself,  and  goes  on :  "  Yet  because  I  will  not  relinquish  my 
just  claim  you  look  upon  me  with  hatred  and  contempt." 

"  Oh,  no,"  says  Mona,  gently ;  "  only  I  should  like  you 
better,  of  course,  if  you  were  not  the  cause  of  our  undoing." 

"  '  Our'  ?  How  you  associate  yourself  with  these  Rodneys  I" 
he  says,  scornfully ;  "  yet  you  are  as  unlike  them  as  a  dove  ia 


MRS.  OEOFFREF.  199 

nnlike  a  hawk.  How  came  you  to  fall  into  their  nest  ?  And 
BO  if  I  could  only  consent  to  efface  myself  you  would  like  me 
better, — tolerate  me  in  fact?  A  poor  return  for  annihilation. 
And  yet,"  impatiently,  "  I  don't  know.     If  I  could  be  sure 

that  even  my  memory  would  be  respected  by  you ."     He 

pauses  and  pushes  back  his  hair  from  his  brow. 

"  "Why  could  you  not  have  stayed  in  Australia  ?"  says  Mona, 
with  some  excitement.  "  You  are  rich  ;  your  home  is  there ; 
you  have  passed  all  your  life  up  to  this  without  a  title,  with- 
out the  tender  associations  that  cling  round  Nicholas  and  that 
will  cost  him  almost  his  life  to  part  with.  You  do  not  want 
them,  yet  you  come  here  to  break  up  our  peace  and  make  ua 
all  utterly  wretched." 

"  Not  you,"  says  Paul,  quickly,  "  What  is  it  to  you  ?  It 
will  not  take  a  penny  out  of  your  pocket.  Your  husband," 
with  an  evil  sneer,  "  has  his  income  secured.  I  am  not  mak- 
ing you  wretched." 

"  You  are,"  says  Mona,  eagerly.  "  Do  you  think,"  tears 
gathering  in  her  eyes,  "  that  1  could  be  happy  when  those  I 
love  are  reduced  to  despair?" 

"  You  must  have  a  large  heart  to  include  all  of  them,"  says 
Rodney,  with  a  shrug.  "  Whom  do  you  mean  by  '  those  you 
love  ?'  Not  Lady  llodney,  surely.  She  is  scarcely  a  person, 
I  take  it,  to  inspire  that  sentiment  in  even  your  tolerant  breast. 
It  cannot  be  for  her  sake  you  bear  me  such  ill  will  ?" 

"  I  bear  you  no  ill  will ;  you  mistake  me,"  says  Mona, 
quietly  :  "  I  am  only  sorry  for  Nicholas,  because  I  do  love  him." 

"  Do  you  ?"  says  her  companion,  staring  at  her,  and  draw- 
ing his  breath  a  little  hard.  "  Then,  even  if  he  should  lose 
to  me  lands,  title,  nay,  all  he  possesses,  I  should  still  count 
him  a  richer  man  than  I  am." 

"  Oh,  poor  Nicholas  1"  says  Mona,  sadly,  "  and  poor  little 
Doatie  1" 

"  You  speak  as  if  my  victory  was  a  foregone  conclusion," 
Bays  llodney.  "  How  can  you  tell  ?  He  may  yet  gain  the 
day,  and  I  may  be  the  outcast." 

"  I  hope  with  all  my  heart  you  will,"  says  Mona. 

"  Thank  you,"  replies  he,  stiflBy ;  "  yet,  after  all,  I  think  I 
should  bet  upon  my  own  chance." 

"  I  am  afraid  you  are  right,"  says  Mona.  "  Oh,  why  did 
you  come  over  at  all  ?" 


200  MRS.  GEOFFREY. 

"  I  am  very  glad  I  did,"  replies  he,  doggedly.  "  At  least 
I  have  seen  you.  They  cannot  take  that  from  me.  I  shall 
always  be  able  to  call  the  remembrance  of  your  face  my  own." 

Mona  hardly  hears  him.  She  is  thinking  of  Nicholas's 
face  as  it  was  half  an  hour  ago  when  he  leaned  against  the 
deserted  doorway  and  looked  at  pretty  Dorothy. 

Yet  pretty  Dorothy  at  her  very  best  moments  had  nevei 
looked,  nor  ever  could  look,  as  lovely  as  Mona  appears  now,  as 
she  stands  with  her  hands  loosely  clasped  before  her,  and  the 
divine  light  of  pity  in  her  eyes,  that  are  shining  softly  like 
twin  stars. 

Behind  her  rises  a  tall  shrub  of  an  intense  green,  against  which 
the  soft  whiteness  of  her  satin  gown  gleams  with  a  peculiar 
richness.  Her  gaze  is  fixed  upon  a  distant  planet  that  watches 
her  solemnly  through  the  window  from  its  seat  in  the  far-off 
heaven,  "  silent,  as  if  it  watch'd  the  sleeping  earth." 

She  sighs.  There  is  pathos  and  sweetness  and  tenderness 
in  every  line  of  her  face,  and  much  sadness.  Her  lips  are 
slightly  parted,  "  her  eyes  are  homes  of  silent  prayer."  Paul, 
watching  her,  feels  as  though  he  Ls  in  the  presence  of  some 
gentle  saint,  sent  for  a  space  to  comfort  sinful  earth. 

A  passionate  admiration  for  her  beauty  and  purity  fills  his 
breast ;  he  could  have  fallen  at  her  feet  and  cried  aloud  to  her 
to  take  pity  upon  him,  to  let  some  loving  thought  for  him — • 
even  him  too — enter  and  find  fruitful  soil  within  her  heart. 

"  Try  not  to  hate  me,"  he  says,  imploringly,  in  a  broken 
voice,  going  suddenly  up  to  her  and  taking  one  of  her  hands  in 
his.  His  grasp  is  so  hard  as  almost  to  hurt  her.  Mona, 
awakening  from  her  revery,  turns  to  him  with  a  start.  Some- 
thing in  his  face  moves  her. 

"  Indeed,  I  do  not  hate  you,"  she  says,  impulsively.  "  Be 
lieve  me,  I  do  not.     But  still  I  fear  you." 

Some  one  is  coming  quickly  towards  them.  Rodney,  drop- 
ping Mona's  hand,  looks  hurriedly  round,  only  to  see  Lady 
Rodney  approaching. 

"  Your  husband  is  looking  for  you,"  she  says  to  Mona,  in 
an  icy  tone.  "  You  had  better  go  to  him.  This  is  no  place 
for  you." 

Without  vouchsafing  a  glance  of  recognition  to  the  Aus- 
tralian, she  sweeps  past,  leaving  them  again  alone.  Paul 
laughs  aloud. 


MRS!.  GEOFFREY.  , 

"  '  A  haughty  spirit  comes  before  a  fall,'  "  quotes  he,  coo- 
temptuously. 

"  I  must  go  now.  Good-night,"  says  Mona,  kindly  if 
coldly.  He  escorts  her  to  the  door  of  the  conservatory. 
There  Lauderdale,  who  is  talking  with  some  men,  comes  for- 
ward and  oiFers  her  his  arm  to  take  her  to  the  carriage.  And 
then  adieux  are  said,  and  the  duke  accompanies  her  down-stairs, 
whilst  Lady  Rodney  contents  herself  with  one  of  her  sons. 

It  is  a  triumph,  if  Mona  only  knew  it,  but  she  is  full  of 
Bad  reflections,  and  is  just  now  wrapped  up  in  mournful 
thoughts  of  Nicholas  and  little  Dorothy.  Misfortune  seems 
flying  towards  them  on  strong  swift  wings.  Can  nothing  stay 
its  approach,  or  beat  it  back  in  time  to  eff'ect  a  rescue  ?  If 
they  fail  to  find  the  nephew  of  the  old  woman  Elspeth  in 
Sydney,  whither  he  is  supposed  to  have  gone,  or  if,  on  finding 
him,  they  fail  to  elicit  any  information  from  him  on  the  sub- 
ject of  the  lost  will,  aft'airs  may  be  counted  almost  hopeless. 

"  Mona,"  says  Geofi"rey  to  her  suddenly,  in  a  low  whisper, 
throwing  his  arm  round  her  (they  are  driving  home  alone 
in  the  small  night-brougham), — "  Mona,  do  you  know  what 
you  have  done  to-night  ?  The  whole  room  went  mad  about 
you.  They  would  talk  of  no  one  else.  Do  not  let  them  turn 
your  head." 

"  Turn  it  where,  darling  ?"  asks  she,  a  little  dreamily. 

"  Away  from  me,"  returns  he,  with  some  emotion,  tighten- 
ing his  clasp  round  her. 

"  From  you  ?  Was  there  ever  such  a  dear  silly  old  goose," 
says  Mrs.  Geoifrey,  with  a  faint,  loving  laugh.  And  then, 
with  a  small  sigh  full  of  content,  she  forgets  her  cares  for 
others  for  a  while,  and,  nestling  closer  to  him,  lays  her  head 
upon  his  shoulder  and  rests  there  happily  until  they  reach  the 
Towers. 


202  MRS.  OEOFFREV. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

HOW  THE  CLOUD  GATHERS — AND  HOW  NICHOLAS  AND 
DOROTHY  HAVE  THEIR  BAD  QUARTER  OP  AN  HOUR. 

The  blow  so  long  expected,  yet  so  eagerly  and  hopefully 
BcofFed  at  with  obstinate  persistency,  falls  at  last  (all  too  soon) 
upon  the  Towers.  Perhaps  it  is  not  the  very  final  blow  that 
when  it  comes  must  shatter  to  atoms  all  the  old  home-ties,  and 
the  tender  links  that  youth  has  forged,  but  it  is  certainly  a 
cruel  shaft,  that  touches  the  heart-strings,  making  them  quiver. 
The  first  thin  edge  of  the  wedge  has  been  inserted  ;  the  sword 
trembles  to  its  fall ;  cest  le  commencement  de  la  fin.' ^ 

It  is  the  morning  after  Lady  Chetwoode's  ball.  Every  one 
has  got  down  to  breakfast.  Every  one  is  in  excellent  spirits, 
in  spite  of  the  fact  that  the  rain  is  racing  down  the  window- 
panes  in  torrents,  and  that  the  post  is  late. 

As  a  rule  it  always  is  late,  except  when  it  is  pretematurally 
early :  sometimes  it  comes  at  half-past  ten,  sometimes  with 
the  hot  water.  There  is  a  blessed  uncertainty  about  its  ad- 
vent that  keeps  every  one  on  the  tiptoe  of  expectation,  and 
probably  benefits  circulation. 

The  postman  himself  is  an  institution  in  the  village,  being 
of  an  unknown  age,  in  fact,  the  real  and  original  oldest  in- 
habitant, and  still  with  no  signs  of  coming  dissolution  about 
him,  thereby  carrying  out  Dickens's  theory  that  a  dead  post- 
boy or  a  dead  donkey  is  a  thing  yet  to  be  seen.  He  is  a 
lioary-headed  old  person,  decrepit  and  garrulous,  with  only  one 
leg  worth  speaking  about,  and  an  ear  trumpet.  This  last  is 
merely  for  show,  as  once  old  Jacob  is  set  fairly  talking,  no 
human  power  could  get  in  a  word  from  any  one  else. 

"  I  am  always  so  glad  when  the  post  doesn't  arrive  in  time 
for  breakfast,"  Doatie  is  saying,  gayly.  "  Once  those  horrid 
papers  come,  every  one  gets  stupid  and  engrossed,  and  thinks 
it  a  positive  injury  to  have  to  say  even  '  yes'  or  '  no'  to  a  civil 
question.  Now  see  how  sociable  we  have  been  this  morning, 
because  that  dear  Jacob  is  late  again.     Ah  1  I  spoke  too  soon," 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  203 

a»  the  door  opens  and  a  servant  enters  with  a  most  imposing 
pile  of  letters  and  papers. 

"  Late  ajrain,  Jermyn,"  says  Sir  Nicholas,  lazily. 

"  Yes,  Sir  Nicholas, — ^just  an  hour  and  a  half.  He  desired 
me  to  say  he  had  had  another  '  dart'  in  his  rheumatic  knee  thia 
morning,  so  hoped  you  would  excuse  him." 

"  Poor  old  soul  !"  says  Sir  Nicholas. 

"Jolly  old  bore !"  says  Captain  Rodney,  though  not  unkindly. 

"  Don't  throw  me  over  that  blue  envelope,  Nick,"  says 
Nolly  :  "  I  don't  seem  to  care  about  it.  I  know  it,  I  think : 
it  seems  familiar.  You  may  have  it,  with  my  love.  Mrs. 
Geoffrey,  be  so  good  as  to  tear  it  in  two." 

Jack  is  laughing  over  a  letter  written  by  one  of  the  fellows 
in  India  ;  all  are  deep  in  their  own  correspondence. 

Sir  Nicholas,  having  gone  leisurely  through  two  of  his  let- 
ters, opens  a  third,  and  begins  to  penise  it  rather  carelessly. 
But  hardly  has  he  gone  half-way  down  the  first  page  when 
his  fiice  changes ;  involuntarily  his  fingers  tighten  over  the 
luckless  letter,  crimping  it  out  of  all  shape.  By  a  supreme 
effort  he  suppresses  an  exclamation.  It  is  all  over  in  a  mo- 
ment. Then  he  raises  his  head,  and  the  color  comes  back  to 
bis  lips.  He  smiles  faintly,  and,  saying  something  about  hav- 
ing many  things  to  do  this  morning,  and  that  therefore  he 
hopes  they  will  forgive  his  running  away  from  them  in  such  a 
hurry,  he  rises  and  walks  slowly  from  the  room. 

Nobody  has  noticed  that  anything  is  wrong.  Only  Doatie 
turns  very  pale,  and  glances  nervously  at  Geoffrey,  who  an- 
swers her  frightened  look  with  a  perplexed  one  of  his  own. 

Then,  as  breakfast  was  virtually  over  before  the  letters  came, 
they  all  rise,  and  disperse  themselves  as  fancy  dictates.  But 
Geoffrey  goes  alone  to  where  he  knows  he  shall  find  Nicholas 
\v  his  own  den. 

An  hour  later,  coming  out  of  it  again,  feeling  harassed  and 
anxious,  he  finds  Dorothy  walking  restlessly  up  and  down  the 
corridor  outside,  as  though  listening  for  some  sound  she  pines 
to  hear.  Her  pretty  face,  usually  so  bright  and  dihonnaire, 
is  pale  and  sad.     Her  lips  are  trembling. 

"  May  I  not  see  Nicholas,  if  only  for  a  moment  ?"  she  says, 
plaintively,  gazing  with  entreaty  at  Geoffrey.  At  which  Nich- 
olas, hearing  from  within  the  voice  that  rings  its  changes  on 
his  heart  from  morn  till  eve,  calls  aloud  to  her, — 


204  MRS.  GEOFFREY. 

"  Come  in,  Dorothy.     I  want  to  speak  to  you." 

So  she  goes  in,  and  Geoflfrey,  closing  the  door  behind  her, 
leaves  them  together. 

She  would  have  gone  to  him  then,  and  tried  to  console  him 
in  her  own  pretty  fashion,  but  he  motions  her  to  stay  where 
she  is. 

"  Do  not  come  any  nearer,"  he  says,  hastily,  "  I  can  tell  it 
all  to  you  better,  more  easily,  when  I  cannot  see  you." 

So  Doatie,  nervous  and  miserable,  and  with  unshed  tears  in 
her  eyes,  stands  where  he  tells  her,  with  her  hand  resting  on 
the  back  of  an  arm-chair,  while  he,  going  over  to  the  window, 
deliberately  turns  his  face  from  hers.  Yet  even  now  he  seems 
to  find  a  diflficulty  in  beginning.  There  is  a  long  pause ;  and 
then 

"  They  —  they  have  found  that  fellow,  —  old  Elspeth's 
nephew,"  he  says,  in  a  husky  tone. 

"  Where  ?"  asks  Doatie,  eagerly. 

"  In  Sydney.  In  Paul  Rodney's  employ.  In  his  very  house." 

"  Ah  !"  says  Doatie,  clasping  her  bauds.     "  And " 

"  He  says  he  knows  nothing  about  any  will." 

Another  pause,  longer  than  the  last. 

"  He  denies  all  knowledge  of  it.  I  suppose  he  has  been 
bought  up  by  the  other  side.  And  now  what  remains  for  us 
to  do  ?  That  was  our  last  chance,  and  a  splendid  one,  as 
there  are  many  reasons  for  believing  that  old  Elspeth  either 
burned  or  hid  the  will  drawn  up  by  my  grandfather  on  the 
night  of  his  death  ;  but  it  has  failed  us.  Yet  I  cannot  but 
think  this  man  Warden  must  know  something  of  it.  How 
did  he  discover  Paul  Rodney's  home  ?  It  has  been  proved 
that  old  Elspeth  was  always  in  communication  with  my  uncle 
up  to  the  hour  of  her  death ;  she  must  have  sent  Warden  to 
Australia  then,  probably  with  this  very  will  she  had  been  so 
carefully  hiding  for  years.  If  so,  it  is  beyond  all  doubt 
burned  or  otherwise  destroyed  by  this  time.  Parkins  writes 
to  me  in  despair." 

"  This  is  dreadful  1"  says  Doatie.  "  But" — brightening — 
**  surely  it  is  not  so  bad  as  death  or  disgrace,  is  it  ?" 

"  It  means  death  to  me,"  replies  he,  in  a  low  tone.  "  It 
means  that  I  shall  lose  you." 

"  Nicholas,"  cries  she,  a  little  sharply,  "  what  is  it  you 
would  say  ?" 


MRS.   GEOFFREY.  205 

"  Nay,  hear  me, '  exclaims  he,  turning  for  the  first  time  to 
confront  her ;  and,  as  he  does,  she  notices  the  ravafz;es  that 
the  last  hour  of  anxiety  and  trouble  have  wrought  upon  his 
face.  He  is  looking  thin  and  haggard,  and  rather  tired.  All 
her  heart  goes  out  to  him,  and  it  is  with  difficulty  she  restrains 
her  desire  to  run  to  him  and  encircle  him  with  her  soft  arms. 
But  something  in  his  expression  prevents  her. 

"  Hear  me,"  he  says,  passionately  :  "  if  I  am  worsted  in  this 
fight — and  I  see  no  ray  of  hope  anywhere — I  am  a  ruined 
man.  I  shall  then  have  literally  only  five  hundred  a  year  that 
I  can  call  my  own.  No  home ;  no  title.  And  such  an  income 
as  that,  to  people  bred  as  you  and  I  have  been,  means  simply 
penury.  AH  must  be  at  an  end  between  us,  Dorothy.  We 
must  try  to  forget  that  we  have  ever  been  more  than  ordinary 
friends." 

This  tirade  has  hardly  the  effect  upon  Dorothy  that  might 
be  desired.  She  still  stands  firm,  utterly  unshaken  by  the 
storm  that  has  just  swept  over  her  (frail  child  though  she  is), 
and,  except  for  a  slight  touch  of  indignation  that  is  fast 
£Towing  within  her  eyes,  appears  unmoved. 

"  You  may  try  just  as  hard  as  ever  you  like,"  she  says,  with 
dignity  :  "  I  shan't  !" 

"  So  you  think  now  ;  but  by  and  by  you  will  find  the  press- 
ure too  great,  and  you  will  go  with  the  tide.  If  I  were  to 
work  for  years  and  years,  I  could  scarcely  at  the  end  achieve 
a  position  fit  to  offer  you.  And  I  am  thirty-two,  remember, 
— not  a  boy  beginning  life,  with  all  the  world  and  time  before 
him, — and  you  are  only  twenty.  By  what  right  should  I  sac- 
rifice your  youth,  your  prospects?  Some  other  man,  some 
one  more  fortunate,  may  perhaps " 

Here  he  breaks  down  ignomiuiously,  considering  the  amount 
of  sternness  he  had  summoned  to  his  aid  when  commencing, 
and,  walking  to  the  mantel-piece,  lays  his  arms  on  it,  and  his 
head  upon  his  arms. 

"  You  insult  me,"  says  Dorothy,  growing  even  whiter  than 
ehe  was  before,  "  when  you  speak  to  me  of — of " 

Then  she,  too,  breaks  down,  and,  going  over  to  him,  delib- 
erately lifts  one  of  his  arms  and  lays  it  round  her  neck,  after 
which  she  places  both  hers  gently  round  his,  and  so,  having 
comfortably  arranged  herself,  proceeds  to  indulge  in  a  hearty 
burst  of  tears.      This  is,  without  exception,  the  very  wisest 

18 


206  MliS.  GEOFFREY. 

course  she  could  have  taken,  as  it  fin<:;htcns  the  life  out  of 
Nicholas,  and  brings  him  to  a  more  proper  frame  of  mind  in 
no  time. 

"  Oh,  Dorothy,  don't  do  that  1  Don't,  my  dearest,  my  pet !" 
he  entreats.  "  I  won't  say  another  word,  not  one,  if  you  will 
only  stop." 

"  You  have  said  too  much  already,  and  there  shant  be  an 
end  of  it,  as  you  declared  just  now,"  protests  Doatie,  vehe- 
mently, who  declines  to  be  comforted  just  yet,  and  is  perhaps 
finding  some  sorrowful  enjoyment  in  the  situation.  "  I'll  take 
very  good  care  there  sha'n'tl  And  I  won't  let  you  give  me 
up.  I  don't  care  how  poor  you  are.  And  I  must  say  I  think 
it  is  very  rude  and  heartless  of  you,  Nicholas,  to  want  to  hand 
me  over  to  '  some  other*  man,'  as  if  I  was  a  book  or  a  parcel  I 
'  Some  other  man,'  indeed  !"  winds  up  Miss  Darling,  with  a 
final  sob  and  a  heavy  increase  of  righteous  wrath. 

"  But  what  is  to  be  done  ?"  asks  Nicholas,  distractedly, 
though  inexpressibly  cheered  by  these  professions  of  loyalty 
and  devotion.     "  Your  people  won't  hear  of  it." 

"  Oh,  yes,  they  will,"  returns  Doatie,  emphatically.  "  They 
will  probably  hear  a  great  deal  of  it !  I  shall  speak  of  it 
morning,  noon,  and  night,  until  out  of  sheer  vexation  of  spirit 
they  will  come  in  a  body  and  entreat  you  to  remove  me. 
Ah !"  regretfully,  "  if  only  I  had  a  fortune  now,  how  sweet  it 
would  be !  I  never  missed  it  before.  We  are  really  very 
unfortunate." 

"  We  are,  indeed.  But  I  think  your  having  a  fortune 
would  only  make  matters  worse."  Then  he  grows  despairing 
once  more.  "  Dorothy,  it  is  madness  to  think  of  it.  I  am 
speaking  only  wisdom,  though  you  are  angry  with  me  for  it. 
Why  encourage  hope  where  there  is  none?" 

"  Because  '  the  miserable  hath  no  other  medicine  but  only 
hope,'  "  quotes  she,  very  sadly. 

"  Yet  what  does  Feltham  say  ?  '  He  that  hopes  too  much 
shall  deceive  himself  at  last.'  Your  medicine  is  dangerous, 
darling.  It  will  kill  you  in  the  end.  Just  think,  Dorothy, 
how  could  you  live  on  five  hundred  a  year  ?" 

"  Other  people  have  done  it, — do  it  every  day,"  says  Dor- 
othy, stoutly.  She  has  dried  her  eyes,  and  is  looking  almost 
as  pretty  as  ever.  "  We  might  find  a  dear  nice  little  house 
somewhere,  Nicholas,"  this  rather  vaguely,  "  might  wo  not  ? 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  207 

with  some  fiimiture  in  Queea  Anne's  style.  Queen  Anne, 
or  what  looks  like  her,  is  not  so  very  expensive  now,  is  she  ?" 

"No,"  says  Nicholas,  "she  isn't;  though  I  should  consider 
her  dear  at  any  price."  He  is  a  depraved  young  man,  who 
declines  to  see  beauty  in  ebony  and  gloom.  "  But,"  with  a 
sigh,  "  I  don't  think  you  quite  understand,  darling." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  do,"  says  Dorothy,  with  a  wise  shake  of  her 
blonde  head ;  "  you  mean  that  probably  we  shall  not  be  ablo 
to  order  any  furniture  at  all.  Well,  even  if  it  comes  to  sitting 
on  one  horrid  kitchen  deal  chair  with  you,  Nicholas,  I  sha'n't 
mind  it  a  scrap."  She  smiles  divinely,  and  with  the  utmost 
cheerfulness,  as  she  says  this.  But  then  she  has  never  tried 
to  sit  on  a  deal  chair,  and  it  is  a  simple  matter  to  conjure  up 
a  smile  when  woes  are  imaginary. 

"  You  are  an  angel,"  says  Nicholas.  And,  indeed,  con- 
sidering all  things,  it  is  the  least  he  could  have  said.  "  If  we 
weather  this  storm,  Dorothy,"  he  goes  on,  earnestly, — "  if,  by 
any  chance.  Fate  should  reinstate  me  once  more  firmly  in  tho 
position  I  have  always  held, — it  shall  be  my  proudest  remem- 
brance that  in  my  adversity  you  were  faithful  to  me,  and 
were  content  to  share  my  fortune,  evil  though  it  showed  itself 
to  be." 

They  are  both  silent  for  a  little  while,  and  then  Dorothy 
says,  softly, — 

"  Perhaps  it  will  all  come  right  at  last.  Oh  !  if  some  kind 
good  fairy  would  but  come  to  our  aid  and  help  us  to  confound 
our  enemies !" 

"  I  am  afraid  there  is  only  one  fairy  on  earth  just  now,  and 
that  is  you,"  says  Nicholas,  with  a  faint  smile,  smoothing 
back  her  pretty  hair  with  loving  fingers,  and  gazing  fondly 
into  the  blue  eyes  that  have  grown  so  big  and  earnest  during 
their  discussion. 

"  I  mean  a  real  fairy,"  says  Dorothy,  shaking  her  head.  "  If 
she  were  to  come  now  this  moment  and  say,  '  Dorothy' " 

"  Dorothy,"  says  a  voice  outside  at  this  very  instant,  so  ex 
actly  as  Doatie  pauses  that  both  she  and  Nicholas  start  simul- 
taneously. 

"  That  is  Mona's  voice,"  says  Doatie.  "  1  must  go. 
Finish  your  letters,  and  come  for  me  then,  and  we  can  go  into 
the  garden  and  talk  it  all  over  again.  Come  in,  Mona :  I  am 
here." 


208  MRS.  GEOFFREY. 

She  opens  the  door,  and  runs  almost  into  Mona's  arms,  who 
is  evidently  searching  for  her  everywhere. 

"  Ah !  now,  I  have  disturbed  you,"  says  Mrs.  Geoffrey, 
pathetically,  to  whom  lovers  are  a  rare  delight  and  a  sacred 
study.  "  How  stupid  of  me  1  Sure  you  needn't  have  come 
out,  when  you  knew  it  was  only  me.  And  of  course  he  wants 
you,  poor  dear  fellow.  I  thought  you  were  in  the  small 
drawing-room,  or  I  shouldn't  have  called  you  at  all." 

"  It  doesn't  matter.  Come  upstairs  with  me,  Mona.  I 
want  to  tell  you  all  about  it,"  says  Doatie.  The  reaction  has 
set  in,  and  she  is  again  tearful,  and  reduced  almost  to  despair. 

"  Alas  1  Geoffrey  has  told  me  everything,"  says  Mona. 
"  That  is  why  I  am  now  seeking  for  you.  I  thought,  1 
knew,  you  were  unhappy,  and  I  wanted  to  tell  you  how  I 
suffer  with  you." 

By  this  time  they  have  reached  Dorothy's  room,  and  now, 
sitting  down,  gaze  mournfully  at  each  other.  Mona  is  so 
truly  grieved  that  any  one  might  well  imagine  this  misfortune, 
that  is  rendering  the  very  air  heavy,  is  her  own,  rather  than 
another's.  And  this  wholesale  sympathy,  this  surrendering 
of  her  body  and  mind  to  a  grief  that  does  not  touch  herself, 
is  inexpressibly  sweet  to  her  poor  little  friend. 

Kneeling  down  by  her,  Dorothy  lays  her  head  upon  Mona'a 
knee,  and  burets  out  crying  afresh. 

"  Don't,  now,"  says  Mona,  in  a  low,  soothing  tone,  folding 
her  in  a  close  embrace ;  "  this  is  wrong,  foolish.  And  when 
things  come  to  the  worst  they  mend." 

"  Not  always,"  sobs  Doatie.  "  I  know  how  it  will  be.  We 
shall  be  separated, — torn  asunder, — and  then  after  a  while 
they  will  make  me  marry  somebody  else ;  and  in  a  weak 
moment  I  shall  do  it  1  And  then  I  shall  be  utterly  wretched 
for  «ver  and  ever." 

"  You  malign  yourself,"  says  Mona.  "  It  is  all  impossible. 
You  will  have  no  such  weak  moment,  or  I  do  not  know  you. 
You  will  be  faithful  always,  until  he  can  marry  you,  and,  if 
ho  never  can,  why,  then  you  can  be  faithful  too,  and  go  to 
your  grave  with  his  image  only  in  your  heart.  That  is  not 
60  bad  a  thought,  is  it  ?" 

"  N — ot  very,"  says  Doatie,  dolefully. 

"  And,  besides,  you  cau  always  see  him,  you  know,"  goes 
on  Mona,  cheerfully.     "It  is  not  as  if  death  had  stolen  him 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  209 

from  you.  He  will  be  always  somewhere  ;  and  you  can  look 
into  his  eyes,  and  read  how  his  love  for  you  has  survived 
everything.  And  perhaps,  after  some  time,  he  may  distinguish 
himself  in  some  way  and  gain  a  position  far  grander  than 
mere  money  or  rank  can  afford,  because  you  know  he  is  won- 
derfully clever." 

"  He  is,"  says  Dorothy,  with  growing  animation. 

"  And  perhaps,  too,  the  law  may  be  on  his  side  :  there  ia 
plenty  of  time  yet  for  a  missing  will  or  a — a — useful  witness 
to  turn  up.  That  will,"  says  Mona,  musingly,  "  must  be 
somewhere.  I  cannot  tell  you  why  I  think  so,  but  I  am  quite 
sure  it  is  still  in  existence,  that  no  harm  has  come  to  it.  It 
may  be  discovered  yet." 

She  looks  so  full  of  belief  in  her  own  fancy  that  she  in- 
spires Doatie  on  the  spot  with  a  similar  faith. 

"  Mona  !  There  is  no  one  so  sweet  oi  3omfortiug  as  you 
are,"  she  cries,  giving  her  a  grateful  hug.  "  I  really  think  I 
do  feel  a  little  better  now." 

"  That's  right,  then,"  says  Mona,  quite  pleased  at  her 
success. 

Violet,  coming  in  a  few  moments  later,  finds  them  still  dis- 
cussing the  all-important  theme. 

"  It  is  unfortunate  for  every  one,"  says  Violet,  discon- 
Bolately,  sinking  into  a  low  chair.  "  Such  a  dear  house,  and  to 
have  it  broken  up  and  given  into  the  possession  of  such  a 
creature  as  that."  She  shrugs  her  shoulders  with  genuine 
disgust. 

"  You  mean  the  Australian?"  says  Dorothy,  "  Oh,  as  for 
him,  he  is  perfectly  utter  I — such  a  man  to  follow  in  Nicholas's 
footsteps !" 

"  I  don't  suppose  any  one  will  take  the  slightest  notice  of 
him,"  says  Violet :  "  that  is  one  comfort." 

"  I  don't  know  that :  Lilian  Chetwoode  made  him  welcome 
in  her  house  last  night,"  says  Doatie,  a  little  bitterly. 

"  That  is  because  Nicholas  will  insist  on  proving  to  every 
one  he  bears  him  no  malice,  and  speaks  of  him  persistently  as 
his  cousin.  Well,  he  may  be  his  cousin  ;  but  there  is  a  limit 
to  everything,"  says  Violet,  with  a  sliglit  frown. 

"  That  is  just  what  is  so  noble  about  Nicholas,"  returns 
Doatie,  quickly.  "  He  supports  him,  simply  because  it  is  his 
©wn  quarrel.  After  all,  it  matters  to  nobody  but  Nicholas 
V  18* 


210  MRS.  OEOFFREY. 

himself:  no  one  else  will  suffer  if  that  odious  black  man  con- 
quers." 

"Yes,  many  will.  Lady  Rodney, — and — and  Jack  too. 
He  also  must  lose  by  it,"  says  Violet,  with  suppressed  warmth. 

"  He  may  ;  but  how  little  in  comparison  I  Nobody  need  be 
thought  of  but  my  poor  Nicholas,"  persists  Doatie,  who  has 
not  read  between  the  lines,  and  fails  therefore  in  putting  a 
proper  construction  upon  the  faint  delicate  blush  that  is  warm- 
ing Violet's  cheek. 

But  Mona  has  read,  and  understands  perfectly. 

"  I  think  every  one  is  to  be  pitied ;  and  Jack  more  than 
iiiGSt, — after  dear  Nicholas,"  she  says,  gently,  with  such  a 
kindly  glance  at  Violet  as  goes  straight  to  that  young  woman's 
heart,  and  grows  and  blossoms  there  forever  after. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

HOW  DISCUSSION  WAXES  RIPE — AND  HOW  NICHOLAS, 
HAVING  MADE  A  SUGGESTION  THAT  IS  BITTER  TO 
THE  EARS  OP  HIS  AUDIENCE,  YET  CARRIES  HIS  POINT 
AGAINST   ALL   OPPOSITION. 

"  The  day  is  done,  and  the  darkness  falls  from  the  wings 
of  night."  The  dusk  is  slowly  creeping  up  over  all  the  land  • 
the  twilight  is  coming  on  apace.  As  the  day  was,  so  is  the 
gathering  eve,  sad  and  mournful,  with  sounds  of  rain  and 
sobbings  of  swift  winds  as  they  rush  through  the  barren 
beeches  in  the  grove.  The  harbor  bar  is  moaning  many  miles 
away,  yet  its  voice  is  borne  by  rude  Boreas  up  from  the  bay  to 
the  walls  of  the  stately  Towers,  that  neither  rock  nor  shiver 
before  the  charges  of  this  violent  son  of  "  imperial  ^olus." 

There  is  a  ghostly  tapping  (as  of  some  departed  spirit  who 
would  fain  enter  once  again  into  the  old  halls  so  long  forgot- 
ten) against  the  window-pane.  Doubtless  it  is  some  waving 
branch  flung  hither  and  thither  by  the  cruel  tempest  that  rages 
without.  Shadows  come  and  go  ;  and  eerie  thoughta  oppress 
the  breast : 


MRS.  QEOFFRET.  211 

"  Whilst  the  eoritoh-owl,  soritohing  load, 
Puts  the  wretch  that  lies  in  woo 
In  remembrance  of  a  shroud." 

"  What  a  wretched  evening  I"  says  Violet,  with  a  little 
shiver.     "  Geoffrey,  draw  the  curtains  closer." 

"  A  fit  ending  to  a  miserable  day,"  says  Lady  Kodney, 
gloomily. 

"  Night  has  always  the  effect  of  making  bad  look  worse," 
says  Doatie,  with  a'  sad  attempt  at  cheerfulness.  "Never 
mind ;  morning  will  soon  be  here  again." 

"  But  why  should  night  produce  melancholy  ?"  says  Nich- 
olas, dreamily.  "  It  is  but  a  reflection  of  the  greater  light, 
after  all.  What  does  Richter  call  it? — 'The  great  shadow 
and  profile  of  day.'  It  is  our  own  morbid  fancies  that  make 
us  dread  it." 

"  Nevertheless,  close  the  curtains,  Geoffrey,  and  ask  Lady 
Rodney  if  she  would  not  like  tea  now,"  says  Violet,  sotto  voce. 

Somebody  pokes  the  fire,  until  a  crimson  light  streams 
through  the  room.  The  huge  logs  are  good-naturedly  in- 
clined, and  burst  their  groat  sides  in  an  endeavor  to  promote 
more  soothing  thought. 

"  As  things  are  so  unsettled,  Nicholas,  perhaps  we  had  better 
put  off  our  dance,"  says  Lady  Rodney,  presently.  "  It  may 
only  worry  you,  and  distress  us  all." 

"  No.  It  will  not  worry  me.  Let  us  have  our  dance  by 
all  means,"  says  Nicholas,  recklessly.  "  Why  should  we  cave 
in,  in  such  hot  haste  ?  It  will  give  us  all  something  to  think 
about.  Why  not  get  up  tableaux  ?  Our  last  were  rather  a 
success.  And  to  represent  Nero  fiddling,  whilst  Rome  was  on 
fire,  would  be  a  very  appropriate  one  for  the  present  occasion." 

He  laughs  a  little  as  he  says  this,  but  there  is  no  mirth  in 
his  laugh. 

"  Nicholas,  come  here,"  says  Doatie,  anxiously,  from  out 
the  shadow  in  which  she  is  sitting,  somewhat  away  from  the 
rest.  And  Nicholas,  going  to  her,  finds  comfort  and  grows 
calm  again  beneath  the  touch  of  the  slim  little  fingers  she 
slips  into  his  beneath  the  cover  of  the  friendly  darkness. 

"  I  don't  see  why  we  shouldn't  launch  out  into  reckless  ex- 
travagance now  our  time  threatens  to  be  so  short,"  says  Jack, 
moodily.  "  Let's  entertain  our  neighbors  right  royally  before 
the  end  comes.    Why  not  wind  up  like  the  pantomimes,  with 


212  MRS.  GEOFFREY. 

showers  of  gold  and  rockets  and  the  gladsome  noise  of  '  ye 
festive  cracker'  ?" 

"  What  nonsense  some  people  are  capable  of  talking  1"  saya 
Violet,  with  a  little  shrug. 

"  "Well,  why  not  ?"  says  Captain  Rodney,  undaunted  by 
this  small  snub.  "  It  is  far  more  difficult  to  talk  than  sense. 
Any  fellow  can  do  that.  If  I  were  to  tell  you  that  Nolly  is 
sound  asleep,  and  that  if  he  lurches  even  half  a  degree  more 
to  the  right  he  will  presently  be  lost  to  sight  among  the  glow- 
ing embers"  (Nolly  rouses  himself  with  a  start),"  you  would 
probably  tell  me  I  was  a  very  silly  fellow  to  waste  breath  over 
such  a  palpable  fact,  but  it  would  be  sense  nevertheless.  I 
hope  I  haven't  disturbed  you,  Nolly  ?  On  such  a  night  as  this 
a  severe  scorching  would  perhaps  be  a  thing  to  be  desired." 

"  Thanks.  I'll  put  it  oft'  for  a  night  or  two,"  says  Nolly, 
sleepily. 

"  Besides,  I  don't  believe  I  was  talking  nonsense,"  goes  on 
Jack,  in  an  aggrieved  tone.  "  My  last  speech  had  very  little 
folly  in  it.  I  feel  the  time  is  fast  approaching  when  we  sha'n't 
have  money  even  to  meet  our  tailors'  bills." 

"  '  In  the  midst  of  life  we  are  in  debt,' "  says  Nolly,  sol- 
emnly. Which  is  about  the  best  thing  he  could  have  said,  as 
it  makes  them  all  laugh  in  spite  of  their  pending  misfortunes. 

"  Nolly  is  waking  up.  I  am  afraid  we  sha'n't  have  that 
auto  dafi^  after  all,"  says  Jack,  in  a  tone  of  rich  disappoint- 
ment. "  I  feel  as  if  we  are  going  to  be  done  out  of  a  good 
thing." 

"  '  What  a  day  we're  avin','  "  says  Mr.  Darling,  disdaining 
to  notice  this  puerile  remark.  "  It's  been  pouring  since  early 
dawn.  I  feel  right  down  cheap, — very  nearly  as  depressed  as 
when  last  night  Nicholas  stuck  me  to  dance  with  the  Esthetic." 

"Lady  Lilias  Eaton,  you  mean?"  asks  Lady  Rodney. 
"  That  reminds  me  we  are  bound  to  go  over  there  to-morrow. 
At  least,  some  of  us." 

"  Mona  must  go,"  says  Nicholas,  quickly.  "  Lady  Lilias 
made  a  point  of  it.     You  will  go,  Mona  ?" 

"  I  should  very  much  like  to  go,"  says  Mona,  gently,  and 
with  some  eagerness.  She  has  been  sitting  very  quietly  with 
her  hands  before  her,  hardly  hearing  what  is  passing  around 
her, — lost,  buried  in  thought. 

"  Poor  infant !     It  is  her  first  essay,"  gays  Nolly,  pitifully. 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  213 

•'  Wait  till  to-morrow  evening,  and  see  if  you  will  feci  as  you 
(io  now.  Your  cheerful  complaisance  in  this  matter  is  much 
to  be  admired.  And  Nicholas  should  be  grateful.  But  I 
think  you  will  find  one  dose  of  Lady  Lilias  and  her  ancient 
Britons  sufficient  for  your  lifetime." 

"  You  used  to  be  tremendous  friends  there  at  one  time," 
says  Geoffrey ;  "  never  out  of  the  house." 

"  I  used  to  stay  there  occasionally  when  old  Lord  Daintree 
was  alive,  if  you  mean  that,"  says  Nolly,  meekly.  "  As  far 
as  I  can  recollect,  1  was  always  shipped  there  when  naughty, 
or  troublesome,  or  in  the  way  at  home ;  and  as  a  rule  I  was 
always  in  the  way.  There  is  a  connection  between  the  Eatona 
and  my  mother,  and  Anadale  saw  a  good  deal  of  me  off  and 
on  during  the  holidays.  It  was  a  sort  of  rod  in  pickle,  or  dark 
closet,  that  used  to  be  held  over  my  head  when  in  disgrace." 

"  Lilias  must  have  been  quite  a  child  then,"  says  Lady 
Rodney. 

"  She  was  never  a  child  :  she  was  born  quite  grown  up.  But 
the  ancient  Britons  had  not  come  into  favor  at  that  time :  so 
she  was  a  degree  more  tolerable.  Bless  me,"  says  Mr.  Darling, 
with  sudden  animation,  "  what  horrid  times  I  put  in  there. 
The  rooms  were  ghastly  enough  to  freeze  the  blood  in  one'a 
veins,  and  no  candles  would  light  'em.  The  beds  were  all 
four-posters,  with  heavy  curtains  round  them,  so  high  that 
one  had  to  get  a  small  ladder  to  mount  into  bed.  I  remember 
one  time — it  was  during  harvest,  and  the  mowers  were  about 
— I  suggested  to  Lord  Daintree  he  should  get  the  men  in  to 
mow  down  the  beds ;  but  no  one  took  any  notice  of  my  pro- 
posal, so  it  fell  to  the  ground.  I  was  frightened  to  death,  and 
indeed  was  more  in  awe  of  the  four-posters  than  of  the  old 
man,  who  wasn't  perhaps  half  bad." 

Dorothy  from  her  corner  laughs  gayly.  "  Poor  old  Noll," 
she  says:  "it  was  his  unhappy  childhood  that  blighted  his 
later  years  and  made  him  the  melancholy  object  he  is." 

"  Well,  you  know,  it  was  much  too  much, — it  was  really," 
gays  Mr.  Darling,  very  earnestly.  "  Mrs.  Geoffrey,  won't  you 
come  to  my  rescue  ?" 

Mrs.  Geoffrey,  thus  addressed,  rouses  herself,  and  says, 
"  What  can  I  do  for  you?"  in  a  far-away  tone  that  proves  she 
has  been  in  thought-land  miles  away  from  every  one. 

Through  her  brain  some  words  are  surging.     Her  mind  has 


214  MRS.  OEOFFREV. 

gone  back  to  that  scene  in  the  conservatory  last  night  when 
she  and  Paul  Rodney  had  been  together.  What  was  it  he 
had  said?  What  were  the  exact  words  he  had  used?  She 
lays  two  fingers  on  her  smooth  white  brow,  and  lets  a  little 
frown — born  only  of  bewildered  thought — contract  its  fairness. 

"  A  scheme,"  he  had  said  ;  and  then  in  a  moment  the  right 
words  flash  across  her  brain.  "  A  brilliant  chance,  a  splendid 
scheme."  What  words  for  an  honest  man  to  use !  Could 
he  be  honest  ?  Was  there  any  flaw,  any  damning  clause  any- 
where in  all  this  careful  plot,  so  cleverly  constructed  to  bring 
ruin  upon  the  heads  of  these  people  who  have  crept  into  her 
t<;nder  heart? 

"  Where  are  you  now,  Mona?"  asks  Geoffrey,  suddenly,  lay- 
ing his  hand  with  a  loving  pressure  on  her  shoulder.  "  In 
Afghanistan  or  Timbuctoo  ?  Far  from  us,  at  least."  There 
is  a  little  vague  reproach  and  uneasiness  in  his  tone. 

"  No ;  very  near  you, — nearer  than  you  think,"  says  Mona, 
quick  to  notice  any  variation  in  his  tone,  awaking  from  her 
revery  with  a  start,  and  laying  one  of  her  hands  over  his. 
"  Geoffrey,"  earnestly,  "  what  is  the  exact  meaning  of  the 
word  '  scheme'  ?  Would  an  honest  man  (surely  he  would 
not)  talk  of  scheming?"  Which  absurd  question  only  shows 
how  unlearned  she  yet  is  in  the  great  lessons  of  life. 

"  Well,  that  is  rather  a  difficult  question  to  answer,"  says 
Geoffrey.  "  Monsieur  de  Lesseps,  when  dreaming  out  the 
Suez  Canal,  called  it  a  scheme  ;  and  he,  I  presume,  is  an  hon- 
est man.  Whereas,  on  the  other  side,  if  a  burglar  were  ar- 
ranging to  steal  all  your  old  silver,  I  suppose  he  would  call 
that  a  scheme  too.  What  have  you  on  the  brain  now,  darling  ? 
You  are  not  going  to  defraud  your  neighbor,  I  hope." 

"  It  is  very  strange,"  says  Mona,  with  a  dissatisfied  sigh  ; 
*'  but  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it  by  and  by." 

Instinct  warns  her  of  treachery ;  common  sense  belies  the 
warning.     To  which  shall  she  give  ear  ? 

"  Shall  we  ask  the  Carsons  to  our  dance,  Nicholas  ?"  asks 
his  mother,  at  this  moment. 

"  Ask  any  one  you  like, — any  one,  I  mean,  that  is  not  quite 
impossible,"  says  Nicholas. 

"  Edith  Carson  is  very  nearly  so,  I  think." 

"  Is  that  the  girl  who  spoke  to  you,  Geoffrey,  at  the  tea- 
room door  ?"  asks  Mona,  with  some  animation. 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  215 

"  Yes.     Girl  with  light,  frizzy  hair  and  green  eye." 
"  A  strange  girl,  I  thought,  but  very  pretty.     Yet — was  it 
English  she  talked?" 

"  Of  the  purest,"  says  Geoffrey. 
*'  What  did  she  say,  Mona?"  inquired  Doatie. 
"  I  am  not  sure  that  I  can  tell  you, — at  least  not  exactly  as 
she  said  it,"  says  Mona,  with  hesitation.  "  I  didn't  quite  un- 
derstand her  ;  but  Geoffrey  asked  her  how  she  was  enjoying 
herself,  and  she  said  it  was  '  fun  all  through  ;'  and  that  she 
was  amusing  herself  just  then  by  hiding  from  her  partner, 
Captain  Dunscombe,  who  was  hunting  for  her  '  all  over  the 
^liop,' — it  was  '  shop'  she  said,  wasn't  it,  Geoff?  And  that  it 
did  her  good  to  see  him  in  a  tearing  rage,  in  fact  on  a  regular 
'  champ,'  because  it  vexed  Tricksy  Newcorabe,  whose  own  par- 
ticular he  was  in  the  way  of  '  pals.'  " 

Everybody  laughs.  In  fact,  Nolly  roars. 
"  Did  she  stop  there  ?"  he  says :  "  that  was  unworthy  of 
her.  Breath  for  once  must  have  failed  her,  as  nothing  so 
trivial  as  want  of  words  could  have  influenced  Miss  Carson." 
"  You  should  have  seen  Mona,"  says  Geoffrey.  "  She 
opened  her  eyes  and  her  lips,  and  gazed  fixedly  upon  the 
lively  Edith.  Curiosity  largely  mingled  with  awe  depicted 
itself  upon  her  expressive  countenance.  She  was  wondering 
whether  she  should  have  to  conquer  that  extraordinary  jargon 
before  being  pronounced  fit  for  polite  society." 

<'No,  indeed,"  says  Mona,  laughing.  "But  it  surely 
wasn't  English,  was  it  ?  That  is  not  the  way  everybody  talks, 
surely." 

"  Everybody,"  says  Geoffrey ;  "  that  is,  all  specially  nice 
people.  You  won't  be  in  the  swim  at  all,  unless  you  take  to 
that  port  of  thing." 

"  Then  you  are  not  a  nice  person  yourself." 
"  I  am  far  from  it,  I  regret  to  say ;  but  time  cures  all 
things,  and  I  trust  to  that  and  careful  observation  to  reform 
me." 

"  And  I  am  to  say  '  pals'  for  friends,  and  call  it  pure  Eng- 
lish?" 

"  It  is  not  more  extraordinary,  surely,  than  calling  a  drunken 
young  man  *  tight,'  "  says  I<ady  Rodney,  with  calm  but  cruel 
meaning. 

Mona  blushes  painfully. 


216  MRS.  GEOFFREY. 

"  Well,  no  ;  but  that  is  pure  Irish,"  says  Geoffrey,  unmoved. 
Mona,  with  lowered  head,  turns  her  wedding-ring  round  and 
round  upon  her  finger,  and  repents  bitterly  that  little  slip  of 
hers  when  talking  with  the  duchess  last  night. 

"  If  I  must  ask  Edith  Carson,  I  shall  feel  I  am  doing 
something  against  my  will,"  says  Lady  Rodney. 

"  We  have  all  to  do  that  at  times,"  says  Sir  Nicholas.  "  And 
there  is  another  person,  mother,  I  shall  be  glad  if  you  will 
eend  a  card  to." 

"  Certainly,  dear.     Who  is  it  ?" 

"  Paul  Rodney,"  replies  he.  very  distinctly. 

"  Nicholas  !"  cries  his  mother,  faintly  :  "  this  is  too  much  I" 

"  Nevertheless,  to  oblige  me,"  entreats  he,  hastily. 

"  But  this  is  morbid, — a  foolish  pride,"  protests  she,  pas- 
sionately, whilst  all  the  others  are  struck  dumb  at  this  sug- 
gestion from  Nicholas.  Is  his  brain  failing  ?  Is  his  intellect 
growing  weak,  that  he  should  propose  such  a  thing  ?  Even 
Doatie,  who  as  a  rule  supports  Nicholas  through  evil  report 
and  good,  sits  silent  and  aghast  at  his  proposition. 

"  What  has  he  done  that  he  should  be  excluded  ?"  demands 
Nicholas,  a  little  excitedly.  "  If  he  can  prove  a  first  right  to 
claim  this  property,  is  that  a  crime  ?  He  is  our  cousin  :  why 
should  we  be  the  only  people  in  the  whole  country-side  to 
treat  him  with  contempt?  He  has  committed  no  violation 
of  the  law,  no  vile  sin  has  been  laid  to  his  charge  beyond  this 
fatal  one  of  wanting  his  own — and — and " 

He  pauses.  In  the  darkness  a  loving,  clinging  hand  has 
again  crept  into  his,  full  of  sweet  entreaty,  and  by  a  gentle 
pressure  has  reduced  him  to  calmness. 

"  Ask  him,  if  only  to  please  me,"  he  says,  wearily. 

"  Everything  shall  be  just  as  you  wish  it,  dearest,"  says  his 
mother,  with  unwonted  tenderness,  and  then  silence  falls  upon 
them  all. 

The  fire  blazes  up  fiercely,  and  anon  drops  its  flame  and 
sinks  into  insignificance  once  more.  Again  the  words  that 
bear  some  vague  but  as  yet  undiscovered  meaning  haunt 
Mona's  brain.  "  A  splendid  scheme."  A  vile  conspiracy, 
perhaps.  Oh  that  she  might  be  instrumental  in  saving  these 
people  from  ruin,  among  whom  her  lot  has  been  cast  1  But 
how  weak  her  arm  I  How  insufficient  her  mind  to  cope  with 
an  emergency  like  this  ! 


MRS.  OEOFFREV.  217 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

HOW     MONA     GOES    TO    ANADALE — AND     HOW    SUE    THERE 
SEES   MANY  THINGS  AS   YET   TO   HER  UNKNOWN. 

About  half-past  two  next  day  they  start  for  Anadale.  Not 
Violet,  or  Captain  Rodney,  who  have  elected  to  go  on  a  mis- 
Bion  of  their  own,  nor  Nicholas,  who  has  gone  up  to  London. 

The  frost  lies  heavy  on  the  ground ;  the  whole  road,  and 
every  bush  and  tree,  sparkles  brilliantly,  as  though  during  tha 
hours  when  darkness  lay  upon  the  earth  the  dread  daughter 
of  Chaos,  as  she  traversed  the  expanse  of  the  firmament  in 
her  ebony  chariot,  had  dropped  heaven's  diamonds  upon  the 
land.  The  wintry  sunshine  lighting  them  up  makes  soft  and 
glorious  the  midday. 

The  hour  is  enchanting,  the  air  almost  mild  ;  and  every  one 
feels  half  aggrieved  when  the  carriage,  entering  the  lodge- 
gates,  bears  them  swiftly  towards  the  massive  entrance  that 
will  lead  them  into  the  house  and  out  of  the  cold. 

But  before  they  reach  the  hall  door  Geoffrey  feels  it  his 
duty  to  bestow  upon  them  a  word  or  two  of  warning. 

"  Now,  look  here,"  he  says,  impressively  :  "  I  hope  nobody 
is  going  to  indulge  in  so  much  as  a  covert  smile  to-day."  He 
glances  severely  at  Nolly,  who  is  already  wreathed  in  smiles. 
*'  Because  the  -^Esthetic  won't  have  it.  She  wouldn't  hear  of 
it  at  any  price.  We  must  all  be  intense !  If  you  don't  un- 
derstand what  that  means,  Mona,  you  had  better  learn  at 
once.  You  are  to  be  silent,  rapt,  lifted  far  above  all  the 
vulgar  commonplaces  of  life.  You  may,  if  you  like,  go  into 
a  rapture  over  a  colorless  pebble,  or  shed  tears  of  joy  above  a 
sickly  lily  ;  but  avoid  ordinary  admiration." 

"  The  only  time  I  shed  tears,"  says  IMr.  Darling,  irrele- 
vantly, "  for  many  years,  was  when  I  heard  of  the  old  chap'a 
death.  And  they  were  drops  of  rich  content.  Do  you  know 
I  think  unconsciously  he  impregnated  her  with  her  present 
notions ;  because  he  was  as  like  an  '  ancient  Briton'  himself 
before  he  died  as  if  he  had  posed  for  it." 
K  19 


218  ^RS.  GEOFFREY. 

"  He  was  very  eccentric,  but  quite  correct,"  says  Lady 
Rodney,  reprovingly. 

"  He  was  a  man  who  never  took  off  his  hat,"  begins  Geof- 
frey. 

"  But  why  ?"  asks  Mona,  in  amaze.  "  Didn't  he  wear 
one  ?" 

"  Yes,  but  he  always  doffed  it ;  and  he  never  put  one  on 
like  ordinary  mortals,  he  always  donned  it.  You  can't  think 
what  a  difference  it  makes." 

"  What  a  silly  boy  you  are,  Geoff!"  says  his  wife,  laughing. 

"  Thank  you,  darling,"  replies  he,  meekly. 

*'  But  what  is  Lady  Lilias  like  ?  I  did  not  notice  her  the 
other  night,"  says  Mona. 

"  She  has  got  one  nose  and  two  eyes,  just  like  every  one 
else,"  says  Nolly.  "  That  is  rather  disappointing,  is  it  not  ? 
And  she  attitudinizes  a  good  deal.  Sometimes  she  reclines 
full  length  upon  the  grass,  with  her  bony  elbow  well  squared 
and  her  chin  buried  in  her  palm.  Sometimes  she  stands  be- 
side a  sun-dial,  with  her  head  to  one  side,  and  a  carefully  edu- 
cated and  very  much  superannuated  peacock  beside  her.  But 
I  dare  say  she  will  do  the  greyhound  pose  to-day.  In  summer 
she  goes  abroad  with  a  huge  wooden  fan  with  which  she  kills 
the  bumble-bee  as  it  floats  by  her.  And  she  gowns  herself  in 
colors  that  make  one's  teeth  on  edge.  I  am  sure  it  is  her  one 
life-long  regret  that  she  must  clothe  herself  at  all,  as  she  has 
dreams  of  savage  nakedness  and  a  liberal  use  of  the  fetching 
woad." 

"  My  dear  Oliver  1"  protests  Lady  Rodney,  mildly. 

"  If  she  presses  refreshments  on  you,  Mona,  say,  '  No, 
thank  you,'  without  hesitation,"  says  Geoffrey,  with  anxious 
haste,  seeing  they  are  drawing  near  their  journey's  end.  "  Be- 
cause if  you  don't  she  will  compel  you  to  partake  of  metheglin 
and  unleavened  bread,  which  means  sudden  death.  Fore- 
warned is  forearmed.  Nolly  and  I  have  done  what  we  cau 
for  you." 

"  Is  she  by  herself?  Is  there  nobody  living  with  her  ?" 
asks  Mona,  somewhat  nervously. 

*'  Well,  practically  speaking,  no.  But  I  believe  she  has  a 
sister  somewhere." 

"  '  Sister  Anne,'  you  mean  ?"  says  Nolly.  "  Oh,  ay  !  I 
have  seen  her,  though  as  a  rule  she  is  suppressed.     She  is 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  219 

quite  all  she  ought  to  be,  and  irreproachable  in  every  respect, 
— unapproachable,  according  to  some.  She  is  a  very  gooa 
girl,  and  never  misses  a  Saint's  Day  by  any  chance,  never  eats 
meat  on  Friday,  or  butter  in  Lent,  and  always  confesses.  But 
she  is  not  of  much  account  in  the  household,  being  averse  to 
'  ye  goode  olde  times.'  " 

At  this  point  the  house  comes  in  view,  and  conversation 
languishes.  The  women  give  a  small  touch  to  their  furs  and 
laces,  the  men  indulge  in  a  final  yawn  that  is  to  last  them 
until  the  gates  of  Anadale  close  behind  them  again. 

"  There  is  no  moat,  and  no  drawbridge,  and  no  eyelet-hole 
through  which  to  spy  upon  the  advance  of  the  enemy,"  says 
Darling,  in  an  impressive  whisper,  just  as  they  turn  the  curve 
that  leads  into  the  big  gravel  sweep  before  the  hall  door. 
"  A  drawback,  1  own  f  but  even  the  very  greatest  are  not  in- 
fallible." 

It  is  a  lovely  old  castle,  ancient  and  time-worn,  with  turrets 
rising  in  unexpected  places,  and  walls  covered  with  drooping 
ivy,  and  gables  dark  with  age. 

A  terrace  runs  along  one  side  of  the  house,  which  is  ex- 
posed to  view  from  the  avenue.  And  here,  with  a  gaunt  but 
handsome  greyhound  beside  her,  stands  a  girl  tall  and  slim, 
yet  beautifully  moulded.  Her  eyes  are  gray,  yet  might  at 
certain  moments  be  termed  blue.  Her  mouth  is  large,  but 
not  unpleasing.  Her  hair  is  quite  dark,  and  drawn  back  into 
a  loose  and  artistic  coil  behind.  She  is  clad  in  an  impossible 
gown  of  sage  green,  that  clings  closely  to  her  slight  figure, 
nay,  almost  desperately,  as  though  afraid  to  lose  her. 

One  hand  is  resting  lightly  with  a  faintly  theatrical  touch 
upon  the  head  of  the  lean  greyhound,  the  other  is  raised  to 
her  forehead  as  though  to  shield  her  eyes  from  the  bright 
Bun. 

Altogether  she  is  a  picture,  which,  if  slightly  suggestive  of 
artificiality,  is  yet  very  nearly  perfection.  Mona  is  therefore 
agreeably  surprised,  and,  being — as  all  her  nation  is — sus- 
ceptible to  outward  beauty,  feels  drawn  towards  this  odd 
young  woman  in  sickly  green,  with  her  canine  friend  beside 
her. 

Lady  Lilias,  slowly  descending  the  stone  steps  with  the 
hound  Egbert  behind  her,  advances  to  meet  Lady  Rodney. 
She  greets  them  all  with  a  solemn  cordiality  that  impresses 


220  ^^^''^-  OEOFFREY. 

everybody  but  Mona,  who  ia  gazing  dreamily  into  the  gray 
eyes  of  her  hostess  and  wondering  vaguely  if  her  lips  have  ever 
smiled.  Her  hostess  in  return  is  gazing  at  her,  perhaps  in 
silent  admiration  of  her  soft  loveliness. 

"  You  will  come  first  and  see  Fhilippa  ?"  she  says,  in  a  slow 
peculiar  tone  that  sounds  as  if  it  had  been  dug  up  and  is  quite 
an  antique  in  its  own  way.  It  savors  of  dust  and  feudal  days. 
Every  one  says  he  or  she  will  be  delighted,  and  all  try  to  look 
as  if  the  entire  hope  of  their  existence  is  centred  in  the 
thought  that  they  shall  soon  lay  longing  eyes  on  Philippa, — 
whose  name  in  reality  is  Anne,  but  who  has  been  rechristened 
by  her  enterprising  sister.  Anne  is  all  very  well  for  every- 
day life,  or  for  Bluebeard's  sister-in-law;  but  Philippa  is  art 
of  the  very  highest  description.  So  Philippa  she  is,  poor 
soul,  whether  she  likes  it  or  not. 

She  has  sprained  her  ankle,  and  is  now  lying  on  a  couch 
in  a  small  drawing-room  as  the  Rodneys  are  ushered  in.  She 
is  rather  glad  to  see  them,  as  life  with  an  "  intense"  sister  is 
at  times  trying,  and  the  ritualistic  curate  is  from  home.  So 
she  smiles  upon  them,  and  manages  to  look  as  amiable  as  plain 
people  ever  can  look. 

The  drawing-room  is  very  much  the  same  as  the  ordinary 
run  of  drawing-rooms,  at  which  Mona  feels  distinct  disappoint- 
ment, until,  glancing  at  Lady  Lilias,  she  notices  a  shudder  of 
disgust  run  through  her  frame. 

"  I  really  cannot  help  it,"  she  explains  to  Mona,  in  hei 
usual  slow  voice,  "  it  all  offends  me  so.  But  Philippa  must 
be  humored.     All  these  glaring  colors  and  hideous  pieces  of 

furniture  take  my  breath  away.     And  the  light By  and 

by  you  must  come  to  some  of  my  rooms ;  but  first,  if  you  are 
not  tired,  I  should  like  you  to  look  at  my  garden  ;  that  is,  if 
you  can  endure  the  cold." 

They  don't  want  to  endure  the  cold ;  but  what  can  they 
say  ?  Politeness  forbids  secession  of  any  kind,  and,  after  a 
few  words  with  the  saintly  Philippa,  they  follow  their  guide 
in  all  meekness  through  halls  and  corridors  out  into  the  gar- 
den she  most  affects. 

And  truly  it  is  a  very  desirable  garden,  and  well  worth  a 
visit.     It  is  like  a  thought  from  another  age. 

Yew-trees — grown  till  they  form  high  walls — are  cut  and 
shaped  in  prim  and  perfect  order,  pome  like  the  walls  of  an- 


MRS.  OEOFFREY.  221 

cient  Troy,  some  like  steps  of  stairs.  Little  doors  are  opened 
through  them,  and  passing  in  and  out  one  walks  on  for  a  mile 
almost,  until  one  loses  one's  way  and  grows  puzzled  how  to 
extricate  one's  self  from  so  charming  a  maze. 

Here  and  there  are  basins  of  water  on  which  lilies  can  lie 
and  sleep  dreamily  through  a  warm  and  sunny  day.  A  sun- 
dial, old  and  green  with  honorable  age,  uproars  itself  upon  a 
chilly  bit  of  sward.  Near  it  lie  two  gaudy  peacocks  sound 
asleep.  All  seems  far  from  the  world,  drowsy,  careless,  indif- 
ferent to  the  weals  and  woes  of  suffering  humanity. 

"  It  is  like  the  garden  of  the  palace  where  the  Sleeping 
Beauty  dwelt,"  whispers  Mona  to  Nolly ;  she  is  delighted, 
charmed,  lost  in  admiration. 

"  You  are  doing  it  beautifully :  keep  it  up,"  whispers  he 
back  :  "  she'll  give  you  something  nice  if  you  sustain  that  look 
for  five  minutes  longer.  Now ! — she  is  looking ;  hurry — 
make  haste — put  it  on  again  !" 

"  I  am  not  pretending,"  says  Mona,  indignantly ;  "  I  am 
delighted  ;  it  is  the  most  enchanting  place  I  ever  saw.  Really 
lovely." 

"  1  didn't  think  it  was  in  you,"  declares  Mr.  Darling,  with 
wild  but  suppressed  admiration.  "  You  would  make  your 
fortune  on  the  stage.  Keep  it  up,  I  tell  you ;  it  couldn't  be 
better." 

"Is  it  possible  you  see  nothing  to  admire ?"  says  Mona, 
with  intense  disgust. 

"  I  do.  More  than  I  can  express.  I  see  you,"  retorts  he ; 
at  which  they  both  give  way  to  merriment,  causing  Geoffrey, 
who  is  walking  with  Lady  Lilias,  to  dodge  behind  her  back 
and  bestow  upon  them  an  annihilating  glance  that  Nolly  after- 
wards describes  as  a  "  lurid  glare." 

The  hound  stalks  on  before  them ;  the  peacocks  wake  up 
and  rend  the  air  with  a  discordant  scream.  Lady  Lilias,  com- 
ing to  the  sun-dial,  leans  her  arm  upon  it,  and  puts  her  head 
in  the  right  position.  A  snail  slowly  travelling  across  a  broad 
ivy-leaf  attracts  her  attention  ;  she  lifts  it  slowly,  leaf  and  all, 
and  directs  attention  to  the  silvery  trail  it  has  left  behind  it. 

"How  tender!  how  touching!"  she  says,  with  a  pensive 
emile,  raising  her  luminous  eyes  to  Geoffrey :  whether  it  is  the 
snail,  or  the  leaf,  or  the  slime,  that  is  tender  and  touching, 
(lubody  knows ;  and  nobody  dares  ask,  lest  he  shall  betray  his 


222  MRS.  GEOFFREY. 

ignorance.  Nolly,  I  regret  to  say,  gives  way  to  emotion  of  a 
frivolous  kind,  and  to  cover  it  blows  his  nose  sonorously. 
Whereupon  Geoffrey,  who  is  supernaturally  grave,  asks  Lady 
Lilias  if  she  will  walk  with  him  as  far  as  the  grotto. 

"  How  could  you  laugh?"  says  Mona,  reproachfully. 

"  How  couldn't  I  ?"  replies  he.  "  Come,  let  us  follow  it  up 
to  the  bitter  end." 

"  I  never  saw  anything  so  clean  as  the  walks,"  says  Mona, 
presently :  "  there  is  not  a  leaf  or  a  weed  to  be  seen,  yet  we 
have  gone  through  so  many  of  them.  How  does  she  manage 
it?" 

"Don't  you  know?"  says  Mr.  Darling,  mysteriously.  "It 
is  a  secret,  but  I  know  you  can  be  trusted.  Every  morning 
early  she  has  them  careftilly  swept,  with  tea-leaves  to  keep 
down  the  dust,  and  if  the  tea  is  strong  it  kills  the  weeds." 

Then  they  do  the  grotto,  and  then  Lady  Lilias  once  more 
leads  the  way  in-doors. 

"  I  want  you  to  see  my  own  work,"  she  says,  going  up 
markedly  to  Mona.  "  I  am  glad  my  garden  has  pleased  you. 
I  could  see  by  your  eyes  how  well  you  appreciated  it.  To  see 
the  beautiful  in  everything,  that  is  the  only  true  religion." 
She  smiles  her  careful  absent  smile  again  as  she  says  this,  and 
gazes  earnestly  at  Mona.  Perhaps,  being  true  to  her  religion, 
she  is  noting  "  the  beautiful"  in  her  Irish  guest. 

With  Philippa  they  have  some  tea,  and  then  again  follow 
their  indefatigable  hostess  to  a  distant  apartment  that  seems 
more  or  less  to  jut  out  from  the  house,  and  was  in  olden  days 
a  tiny  chapel  or  oratory. 

It  is  an  octagon  chamber  of  the  most  uncomfortable  descrip- 
tion, but  no  doubt  artistic,  and  above  all  praise,  according  to 
some  lights.  To  outsiders  it  presents  a  curious  appearance, 
and  might  by  the  unlearned  be  regarded  as  a  jumble  of  all 
ages,  a  make-up  of  objectionable  bits  from  different  centuries ; 
but  to  Lady  Lilias  and  her  sympathizers  it  is  simply  perfection. 

The  furniture  is  composed  of  oak  of  the  hardest  and  most 
severe.  To  sit  down  would  be  a  labor  of  anything  but  love. 
The  chairs  are  strictly  Gothic.  The  table  is  a  marvel  in  itself 
for  ugliness  and  inutility. 

There  are  no  windows ;  but  in  their  place  are  four  unpleas- 
ant slits  about  two  yards  in  length,  let  into  the  thick  walls  at 
studiously  unequal  distances.      These  are  filled  up  with  an 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  223 

opaque  substance  that  perhaps  in  the  Middle  Ages  was  called 
glass. 

There  is  no  grate,  and  the  fire,  which  has  plainly  made  up 
its  mind  not  to  light,  is  composed  of  Yule-logs.  The  floor  is 
shining  with  sand,  rushes  having  palled  on  Lady  Lilias. 

Mona  is  quite  pleased.  All  is  new,  which  in  itself  is  a 
pleasure  to  her,  and  the  sanded  floor  carries  her  back  on  the 
instant  to  the  old  parlor  at  home,  which  was  their  "  best"  at 
the  Farm. 

"  This  is  nicer  than  anything :"  she  says,  turning  in  a  state 
of  childish  enthusiasm  to  Lady  Lilias.  "  It  is  just  like  the 
floor  in  my  uncle's  house  at  home." 

"  Ah  I  indeed  !  How  interesting !"  says  Lady  Lilias, 
rousing  into  something  that  very  nearly  borders  on  animation. 
"  I  did  not  think  there  was  in  England  another  room  like  this." 

"  Not  in  England,  perhaps.  When  I  spoke  I  was  thinking 
of  Ireland,"  says  Mona. 

"  Yes  ?"  with  calm  surprise.  "  I — I  have  heard  of  Ireland, 
of  course.  Indeed,  I  regard  the  older  accounts  of  it  as  very 
deserving  of  thought ;  but  I  had  no  idea  the  more  elevated 
aspirations  of  modern  times  had  spread  so  far.  So  this  room 
reminds  you  of — your  uncle's  ?" 

"  Partly,"  says  Mona.  "  Not  altogether :  there  was  always 
a  faint  odor  of  pipes  about  Uncle  Brian's  room  that  does 
not  belong  to  this." 

"Ah!  Tobacco!  First  introduced  by  Sir  Walter  Raleigh," 
murmurs  Lady  Lilias,  musingly.  "  Too  modern,  but  no  doubt 
correct  and  in  keeping.  Your  uncle,  then," — looking  at 
Mona, — "  is  beyond  question  an  earnest  student  of  our  faith." 

"  A — student  ?"  says  Mona,  in  a  degree  puzzled. 

Doatie  and  Geoflfrey  have  walked  to  a  distant  slit ;  Nolly  is 
gazing  vacantly  through  another,  trying  feebly  to  discern  the 
landscape  beyond.  Lady  Rodney  is  on  thorns.  They  are  all 
listening  to  what  Mona  is  going  to  say  next. 

"  Yes.  A  disciple,  a  searcher  after  truth,"  goes  on  Lady 
Lilias,  in  her  Noah's  Ark  tone.  "  By  a  student  I  mean  one 
who  studies,  and  arrives  at  perfection — in  time." 

"  I  don't  quite  know,"  says  Mona,  slowly,  "  but  what  Uncle 
Brian  principally  studies  is — pigs  !" 

"  Pigs  I"  repeats  Lady  Lilias,  plainly  taken  aback. 

*'  Yes  ;  pigs  1"  says  Mona,  sweetly. 


224  MRS.  QEOFFRET. 

Tliere  is  a  faint  pause, — so  faint  that  Lady  Rodney  is  un- 
able to  edge  in  the  saving  clause  she  would  fain  have  uttered. 
Lady  Lilias,  recovering  with  wonderful  spirit  from  so  severe  a 
blow,  comes  once  more  boldly  to  the  front.  She  taps  her 
white  taper  fingers  lightly  on  the  table  near  her,  and  says, 
apologetically, — the  apology  being  meant  for  herself, — 

"  Forgive  me  that  I  showed  surprise.  Your  uncle  is  more 
advanced  than  I  had  supposed.  He  is  right.  Why  should  a 
pig  be  esteemed  less  lovely  than  a  stag  ?  Nature  in  its  en- 
tirety can  know  no  blemi.sh.  The  fault  lies  with  us.  We  are 
creatures  of  habit :  we  have  chosen  to  regard  the  innocent  pig 
as  a  type  of  ugliness  for  generations,  and  now  find  it  difficult 
to  see  any  beauty  in  it." 

"  Well ;  there  isn't  much,  is  there  ?"  says  Mona,  pleasantly. 

"  No  doubt  education,  and  a  careful  study  of  the  animal  in 
question,  might  betray  much  to  us,"  says  Lady  Lilias.  "  We 
object  to  the  uncovered  hide  of  the  pig,  and  to  his  small  eyes; 
but  can  they  not  see  as  well  as  those  of  the  fawn,  or  the  deli- 
cate lapdog  we  fondle  all  day  on  our  knees  ?  It  is  unjust  that 
one  animal  should  be  treated  with  less  regard  than  another." 

"  But  you  couldn't  fondle  a  pig  on  your  knees,"  says  Mona, 
who  is  growing  every  minute  more  and  more  mixed. 

"  No,  no ;  but  it  should  be  treated  with  courtesy.  We 
were  speaking  of  the  size  of  its  eyes.  Why  should  they  be 
despised  ?  Do  we  not  often  in  our  ignorance  and  narrow- 
mindedness  cling  to  paltry  things  and  ignore  the  truly  great  ? 
The  tiny  diamond  that  lies  in  the  hollow  of  our  hands  is  dear 
and  precious  in  our  sight,  whilst  we  fail  to  find  beauty  in  the 
huge  boulder  that  is  after  all  far  more  worthy  of  regard,  with 
its  lights  and  shades,  its  grand  ruggedness,  and  the  soft  vege- 
table matter  that  decks  its  aged  sides,  rendering  their  rough- 
ness beautiful." 

Here  she  gets  completely  out  of  her  depths,  and  stops  to 
consider  from  whence  this  train  of  thought  sprung.  The  pig 
is  forgotten, — indeed,  to  get  from  pigs  to  diamonds  and  back 
again  is  not  an  easy  matter, — and  has  to  be  searched  for  again 
amidst  the  dim  recesses  of  her  brain,  and  if  possible  brought 
to  the  surface. 

She  draws  up  her  tall  figure  to  its  utmost  height,  and  gazes 
at  the  raftered  ceiling  to  see  if  inspiration  can  be  drawn  from 
thence.     But  it  fails  her. 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  22^ 

*«  You  were  talking  of  pigs,"  says  Mona,  gently. 

"  Ah  1  so  I  was,"  says  Lady  Lilias,  with  a  sigh  of  relief : 
ehe  is  quite  too  intense  to  feel  any  of  the  petty  vexations  of 
ordinary  mortals,  and  takes  Mona's  help  in  excellent  part. 
*'  Yes,  I  really  think  there  is  loveliness  in  a  pig  when  sur- 
rounded by  its  offspring.  I  have  seen  them  once  or  twice, 
and  I  think  the  little  pigs — the — the " 

"  Bonuvs,"  says  IMona,  mildly,  going  back  naturally  to  the 
Irish  term  for  those  interesting  babies. 

"  Eh  ?"  says  Lady  Lilias. 

"  Bonuvs,"  repeats  Mona,  a  little  louder,  at  which  Lady 
Rodney  sinks  into  a  chair,  as  though  utterly  overcome.  Nolly 
and  Geoffrey  are  convulsed  with  laughter.  Doatie  is  vainly 
endeavoring  to  keep  them  in  order. 

*'  Oh,  is  that  their  name  ? — a  pretty  one  too — if — er — some- 
what difficult,"  says  Lady  Lilias,  courteously.  "  Well,  as  I 
was  saying,  in  spite  of  their  tails,  they  really  are  quite 
pretty." 

At  this  Mona  laughs  unrestrainedly ;  and  Lady  Bodney, 
rising  hurriedly,  says, — 

"  Dear  Lady  Lilias,  I  think  we  have  at  last  nearly  taken  in 
all  the  beauties  of  your  charming  room.  I  fear,"  with  much 
suavity,  "  we  must  be  going." 

"  Oh,  not  yet,"  says  Lady  Lilias,  with  the  nearest  attempt 
at  youthfiilness  she  has  yet  made.  "  Mrs.  Bodney  has  not  half 
Been  all  my  treasures." 

Mrs.  Bodney,  however,  has  been  foraging  on  her  own  ac- 
count during  this  brief  interlude,  and  now  brings  triumphantly 
to  light  a  little  basin  filled  with  early  snowdrops. 

"  Snowdrops, — and  so  soon,"  she  says,  going  up  to  Lady 
Lilias,  and  looking  quite  happy  over  her  discovery.  "  We 
have  none  yet  at  the  Towers." 

"  Yes,  they  are  pretty,  but  insignificant,"  says  the  -Esthete, 
contemptuously.  "  Paltry  children  of  the  earth,  not  to  be 
-Rompared  with  the  lenten  or  the  tiger  lily,  or  the  fiercer 
beauty  of  the  sunflower,  or  the  hues  of  the  unsurpassable 
thistle  I" 

"  I  am  very  ignorant,  1  know,"  says  Mrs.  Geoffrey,  with 
her  sunny  smile,  "  but  I  think  I  should  prefer  a  snowdrop  to 
a  thistle." 

"  You  have  not  gone  into  it,"  says  Lady  Lilias,  regretfully. 
P 


226  MRS.  GEOFFREY. 

"  To  you  Nature  is  as  yet  a  blank.  The  exquisite  purple  of 
the  stately  thistle,  that  by  the  scoffer  is  called  dull,  is  not 
understood  by  you.  Nor  does  your  heart  swell  beneath  tha 
influence  of  the  rare  and  perfect  jrreen  of  its  leaves,  which 
doubtless  the  untaught  deemed  soiled.  To  fully  appreciate 
the  yieldings  and  gifts  of  earth  is  a  power  given  only  to  some." 
She  bows  her  head,  feeling  a  modest  pride  in  the  thought  that 
she  belongs  to  the  happy  "some."  "Ignorance,"  she  says, 
sorrowfully,  "  is  the  greatest  enemy  of  our  cause." 

"  I  am  afraid  you  must  class  me  with  the  ignorant,"  says 
Mona,  shaking  her  pretty  head.  "  I  know  nothing  at  all  about 
thistles,  except  that  donkeys  love  them  1" 

Is  this,  can  this  be  premeditated,  or  is  it  a  fatal  slip  of  the 
tongue?  Lady  Rodney  turns  pale,  and  even  Geoffrey  and 
Nolly  stand  aghast.  Mona  alone  is  smiling  unconcernedly 
into  Lady  Lilias's  eyes,  and  Lady  Lilias,  after  a  brief  second, 
smiles  back  at  her.  It  is  plain  the  severe  young  woman  in  the 
eage-green  gown  has  not  even  noticed  the  dangerous  remark. 

"  You  must  come  again  very  soon  to  see  me,"  she  says  to 
Mona,  and  then  goes  with  her  all  along  the  halls  and  passages, 
and  actually  stands  upon  the  door-steps  until  they  drive  away. 
And  Mona  kisses  hands  gayly  to  her  as  they  turn  the  corner 
of  the  avenue,  and  then  tells  Geoffrey  that  she  thinks  he  has 
been  very  hard  on  Lady  Lilias,  because,  though  she  is  plainly 
quite  mad,  poor  thing,  there  is  certainly  nothing  to  be  disliked 
about  her. 


CHAPTER   XXVIL 

HOW  MONA  TAKES  A  WALK  ABROAD — AND   HOW  SHE  ASKS 
CROSS-QUESTIONS   AND    RECEIVES   CROOKED   ANSWERS. 

It  is  ten  days  later, — ten  dreary,  interminable  days,  that 
have  struggled  into  light,  and  sunk  back  again  into  darkness, 
leaving  no  trace  worthy  of  remembrance  in  their  train. 
"  Swift  as  swallows'  wings"  they  have  flown,  scarce  breaking 
the  air  in  their  flight,  so  silently,  so  evenly  they  have  departed, 
»<»  days  will,  when  dull  monotony  marks  them  for  its  own. 

To-day  is  cool,  and  calm,  and  bright.     Almost  one  fancies 


MRS.  GEOFFREV.  227 

the  first  faint  breath  of  spring  has  touched  one's  cheek, 
though  as  yet  January  has  not  wended  to  its  weary  close,  and 
no  smallest  sign  of  growth  or  vegetation  makes  itself  felt. 

The  grass  is  still  brown,  the  trees  barren,  no  ambitious 
floweret  thrusts  its  head  above  the  bosom  of  its  mother  earth, 
— except,  indeed,  those  "  fioures  white  and  rede,  soch  as  mea 
callen  daisies,"  that  always  seem  to  beam  upon  the  world,  no 
matter  how  the  wind  blows. 

Just  now  it  is  blowing  softly,  delicately,  as  though  its  fury 
of  the  night  before  had  been  an  hallucination  of  the  brain. 
It  is  "  a  sweet  and  passionate  wooer,"  says  Longfellow,  and 
lays  siege  to  "  the  blushing  leaf."  There  are  no  leaves  for  it 
to  kiss  to-day  :  so  it  bestows  its  caresses  upon  Mona  as  she 
wanders  forth,  close  guarded  by  her  two  stanch  hounds  that 
follow  at  her  heels. 

There  is  a  strange  hush  and  silence  everywhere.  The  very 
clouds  are  motionless  in  their  distant  homes. 

"There  has  not  been  a  sound  to-day 

To  break  the  calm  of  Nature  : 
Nor  motion,  I  might  almost  say, 

Of  life,  or  living  creature, 
Of  waving  bough,  or  warbling  bird, 

Or  cattle  faintly  lowing  : 
I  could  have  half  believed  I  heard 

The  leaves  and  blossoms  growing." 

Indeed,  no  sound  disturbs  the  sacred  silence  save  the  cris| 
rustle  of  the  dead  leaves,  as  they  are  trodden  into  the  ground 

Over  the  meadows  and  into  the  wood  goes  Mona,  to  whert 
a  streamlet  runs,  that  is  her  special  joy, — being  of  the  gar- 
rulous and  babbling  order,  which  is,  perhaps,  the  nearest 
approach  to  divine  music  that  nature  can  make.  But  to-day 
the  stream  is  swollen,  is  enlarged  beyond  all  recognition,  and, 
being  filled  with  pride  at  its  own  promotion,  has  forgotten  iti 
little  loving  song,  and  is  rushing  onward  with  a  passionate 
roar  to  the  ocean. 

Down  from  the  cataract  in  the  rocks  above  the  water  comes 
with  a  mighty  will,  foaming,  glistening,  shouting  a  loud  tri- 
umphant paean  as  it  flings  itself  into  the  arms  of  the  vain 
brook  beneath,  that  only  yester-eve  was  a  stream,  but  to-day 
may  well  be  deemed  a  river. 

Up  high  the  rocks  are  overgrown  with  ferns,  and  drooping 


228  MRS.  GEOFFREY 

tilings,  all  green  and  feathery,  that  hide  small  caves  and  pi(^ 
turosque  crannies,  through  which  the  brightrcyed  Naiads 
might  peep  whilst  holding  back  with  bare  uplifted  arms  their 
amber  hair,  the  better  to  gaze  upon  the  unconscious  earth 
outside. 

A  loose  stone  that  has  fallen  from  its  home  in  the  moun- 
tain-side above  uprears  itself  in  the  middle  of  this  turbulent 
Btroam.  But  it  is  too  far  from  the  edge,  and  Mona,  standing 
irresolutely  on  the  brink,  pauses,  as  though  half  afraid  to  take 
the  step  that  must  either  land  her  safely  on  the  other  side  or 
else  precipitate  her  into  the  angry  little  river. 

As  she  thus  ponders  within  herself,  Spice  and  Allspice,  the 
two  dogs,  set  up  a  simultaneous  howl,  and  immediately  after- 
wards a  voice  says,  eagerly, — 

"  Wait,  Mrs.  Rodney.     Let  me  help  you  across." 

Mona  starts,  and,  looking  up,  sees  the  Australian  coming 
quickly  towards  her. 

"  You  are  very  kind.  The  river  is  greatly  swollen,"  she 
says,  to  gain  time.  Geoffrey,  perhaps,  will  not  like  her  to 
accept  any  civility  at  the  hands  of  this  common  enemy. 

"  Not  so  much  so  that  I  cannot  help  you  to  cross  over  in 
safety,  if  you  will  only  trust  yourself  to  me,"  replies  he. 

Still  she  hesitates,  and  he  is  not  slow  to  notice  the  eloquent 
pause. 

"  Is  it  worth  so  much  thought  ?"  he  says,  bitterly.  "  It 
surely  will  not  injure  you  fatally  to  lay  your  hand  in  mine  for 
one  instant." 

"  You  mistake  me,"  says  Mona,  shocked  at  her  own  want 
of  courtesy ;  and  then  she  extends  to  him  her  hand,  and,  set- 
ting her  foot  upon  the  huge  stone,  springs  lightly  to  his  side. 

Once  there  she  has  to  go  with  him  down  the  narrow  wood- 
land path,  there  being  no  other,  and  so  paces  on,  silently,  and 
sorely  against  her  will. 

"  Sir  Nicholas  has  sent  me  an  invitation  for  the  19th,"  he 
says,  presently,  when  the  silence  has  become  unendurable. 

"  Yes,"  says  Mona,  devoutly  hoping  he  is  going  to  say  he 
means  to  refuse  it.     But  such  devout  hope  is  wasted. 

"  I  shall  go,"  he  says,  doggedly,  as  though  divining  her 
secret  wish. 

"  I  am  sure  we  shall  all  be  very  glad,"  she  says,  faintly, 
feeling  herself  bound  to  make  some  remark. 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  229 

"  Thanks !"  returns  he,  with  an  ironical  laugh.  "  How 
excelleutly  your  tone  agrees  with  your  words  1" 

Another  pause.  Mona  is  on  thorns.  Will  the  branching 
path,  that  may  give  her  a  chance  of  escaping  a  further  tete-d- 
tete  with  him,  never  be  reached  ? 

"So  Warden  failed  you?"  he  says,  presently,  alluding  to 
old  Elspeth's  nephew. 

"  Yes, — so  far,"  returns  she,  coldly. 

"  It  was  a  feeble  effort,"  declares  he,  contemptuously, 
striking  with  his  cane  the  trunks  of  the  trees  as  he  goes  by 
them. 

"  Yet  I  think  Warden  knows  more  than  he  cares  to  tell," 
says  Mona,  at  a  venture.     Why,  she  herself  hardly  knows. 

He  turns,  as  though  by  an  irrepressible  impulse,  to  look 
keenly  at  her.  His  scrutiny  endures  only  for  an  instant. 
Then  he  says,  with  admirable  indifference, — 

"  You  have  grounds  for  saying  so,  of  course?" 

"  Perhaps  I  have.  Do  you  deny  I  am  in  the  right  ?"  asks 
she,  returning  his  gaze  undauntedly. 

He  drops  his  eyes,  and  the  low,  sneering  laugh  she  has 
learned  to  know  and  to  hate  so  much  comes  again  to  his  lips. 

"  It  would  be  rude  to  deny  that,"  he  says,  with  a  slight 
shrug.      "  I  am  sure  you  are  always  in  the  right." 

"  If  I  am.  Warden  surely  knows  more  about  the  will  than 
he  has  sworn  to." 

"  It  is  very  probable, — if  there  ever  was  such  a  will.  How 
should  I  know?  I  have  not  cross-examined  Warden  on  this 
or  any  other  subject.  He  is  an  overtseer  over  my  estate,  a 
mere  servant,  nothing  more." 

"  Has  he  the  will?"  asks  Mona,  foolishly,  but  impulsively. 

"  He  may  have,  and  a  stocking  full  of  gold,  and  the  roc's 
egg,  or  anything  else,  for  aught  1  know.  I  never  saw  it. 
They  tell  me  there  was  an  iniquitous  and  most  unjust  will 
drawn  up  some  years  ago  by  old  Sir  George :  that  is  all  I 
know." 

"  By  your  grandfather  I"  corrects  Mona,  in  a  peculiar  tone. 

"  Well,  by  my  grandfather,  if  you  so  prefer  it,"  repeats  he, 
with  much  unconcern.  "  It  got  itself,  if  it  ever  existed,  irre- 
trievably lost,  and  that  is  all  any  one  knows  about  it." 

Mona  is  watching  him  intently. 

**■  Yet  I  feel  sure — I  know,"  she  says,  tremulously,  "  you 
20 


230  MRS.  OEOFFREY. 

are  hiding  something  from  me.  Why  do  you  not  look  at  me 
when  you  answer  my  questions  ?" 

At  this  his  dark  face  flames,  and  his  eyes  instinctively,  yet 
almost  against  his  will,  seek  hers. 

"  Why  ?  '  he  says,  with  suppressed  passion.  "  Because, 
each  time  I  do,  I  know  myself  to  be — what  I  am  1  Your 
truthful  eyes  are  mirrors  in  which  my  heart  lies  bare."  With 
an  effort  he  recovers  himself,  and,  drawing  his  breath  quickly, 
grows  calm  again.  "  If  I  were  to  gaze  at  you  as  often  as  I 
should  desire,  you  would  probably  deem  me  impertinent,"  he 
says,  with  a  lapse  into  his  former  half-insolent  tone. 

"  Answer  me,"  persists  ]\Iona,  not  heeding — nay,  scarcely 
hearing — his  last  speech.  "  You  said  once  it  would  be  difficult 
to  lie  to  me.     Do  you  know  anything  of  this  missing  will  ?" 

"  A  great  deal.  I  should.  I  have  heard  of  almost  nothing 
else  since  my  arrival  in  p]nglaud,"  replies  he,  slowly. 

"  Ah  1  Then  you  refuse  to  answer  me,"  says  Mona,  hastily, 
if  somewhat  wearily. 

He  makes  no  reply.  And  for  a  full  minute  no  word  is 
spoken  between  them. 

Then  Mona  goes  on  quietly : 

"  That  night  at  Chetwoode  you  made  use  of  some  words 
that  I  have  never  forgotten  since." 

He  is  plainly  surprised.  He  is  indeed  glad.  His  face 
changes,  as  if  by  magic,  from  sullen  gloom  to  pleasurable  an- 
ticipation. 

"  You  have  remembered  something  that  I  said,  for  eleven 
days  ?"  he  says,  quickly. 

"  Yes.  When  talking  then  of  supplanting  Sir  Nicholas  at 
the  Towers,  you  spoke  of  your  project  as  a  '  splendid  scheme.' 
What  did  you  mean  by  it  ?  I  cannot  get  the  words  out  of 
my  head  since.     Is  '  scheme'  an  honest  word  ?" 

Her  tone  is  only  too  significant.  His  face  has  grown  black 
again.     A  heavy  frown  sits  on  his  brow. 

"  You  are  not  perhaps  aware  of  it,  but  your  tone  is  insult- 
ing," he  begins,  huskily.  "  Were  you  a  man  I  could  give 
you  an  answer,  now,  here ;  but  as  it  is  I  am  of  course  tied 
hand  and  foot.  You  can  say  to  me  what  you  please.  And 
I  shall  bear  it.  Think  as  badly  of  me  as  you  will.  I  am  a 
Bchemer,  a  swindler,  what  you  will  !"' 

"Even  in  my  thoughts  I  never  applied  those  words  to  you," 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  231 

Bays  Mona,  earnestly.  "  Yet  some  feeling  here"— laying  her 
hand  upon  her  heart—"  compels  me  to  believe  you  are  not 
dealing  fairly  by  us."  To  her  there  is  untruth  in  every  Ime 
of  his  face,  in  every  tone  of  his  voice. 

"  You  condemn  me  without  a  hearing,  swayed  by  the  influ- 
ence of  a  carefully  educated  dislike,"  retorts  he: 

"  '  Alas  for  the  rarity 
Of  Christian  charity 
Under  the  sun !' 

But  I  blame  the  people  you  have  fallen  among,— not  you.  ^ 

"  Blame  no  one,"  says  Mona.  "  But  if  there  is  anything 
in  your  own  heart  to  condemn  you,  then  pause  before  you  go 
further  in  this  matter  of  the  Towers." 

"  I  wonder  i/ou  are  not  afraid  of  going  too  far,"  he  puts  in, 
warningly,  his  dark  eyes  flashing. 

"  I  am  afraid  of  nothing,"  says  Mona,  simply.  _"  I  am  not 
half  so  much  afraid  as  you  were  a  few  moments  since,  when 
you  could  not  let  your  eyes  meet  mine,  and  when  you  shrank 
from  answering  me  a  simple  question.  In  my  turn  I  tell  you 
to  pause  before  going  too  far." 

"Your  advice  is  excellent,"  says  he,  snecringly.  Then 
suddenly  he  stops  short  before  her,  and  breaks  out  vehe- 
mently : 

"  Were  I  to  fling  up  this  whole  business  and  resign  my 
chance,  and  leave  these  people  in  possession,  what  should  I 
gain  by  it  ?"  demands  he.  "  They  have  treated  me  from  tho 
beginning  with  ignominy  and  contempt.  You  alone  have 
treated  me  with  common  civility ;  and  even  you  they  havo 
tutored  to  regard  me  with  averted  eyes." 

"You  are  wrong,"  says  Mona,  coldly.  "They  seldom 
trouble  themselves  to  speak  of  you  at  all."  This  is  crueller 
than  she  knows. 

"Why  don't  I  hate  you?"  he  says,  with  some  emotion. 
*'  How  bitterly  unkind  even  the  softest,  sweetest  women  can 
be  1  Yet  there  is  something  about  you  that  subdues  me  and 
renders  hatred  impossible.  If  I  had  never  met  you,  I  should 
be  a  happier  man." 

"  How  can  you  be  happy  with  a  weight  upon  your  heart?" 
Bays  Mona,  following  out  her  own  thoughts  irrespective  of  his. 
*'  Give  up  this  project,  and  peace  will  return  to  you." 


232  MliS.  GEOFFREY. 

"  No,  I  shall  pursue  it  to  its  end,"  returns  he,  with  slow 
malice,  that  makes  her  heart  grow  cold,  "  until  the  day  cornea 
that  shall  enable  me  to  plant  my  heel  upon  these  aristocrats 
and  crush  them  out  of  recognition." 

"  And  after  that  what  will  remain  to  you  ?"  asks  she,  pale 
but  collected.  "  It  is  bare  comfort  when  hatred  alone  reigns 
in  the  heart.  With  such  thoughts  in  your  breast  what  can 
you  hope  for? — what  can  life  give  you?" 

*'  Something,"  replies  he,  with  a  short  laugh.  "  I  shall  at 
least  see  you  again  on  the  19th." 

He  raises  his  hat,  and,  turning  abruptly  away,  is  soon  lost 
to  sight  round  a  curve  in  the  winding  pathway.  He  walks 
steadily  and  with  an  unflinching  air,  but  when  the  curve  has 
hidden  him  from  her  eyes  he  stops  short,  and  sighs  heavily. 

"  To  love  such  a  woman  as  that,  and  be  beloved  by  her, 
how  it  would  change  a  man's  whole  nature,  no  matter  how 
low  he  may  have  sunk,"  he  says,  slowly.  "  It  would  mean 
salvation  !  But  as  it  is — No,  I  cannot  draw  back  now :  it  is 
too  late." 

Meantime,  Mona  has  gone  quickly  back  to  the  Towers,  her 
mind  disturbed  and  unsettled.  Has  she  misjudged  him  ?  is  it 
possible  that  his  claim  is  a  just  one  after  all,  and  that  she  has 
been  wrong  in  deeming  him  one  who  might  defraud  his 
neighbor  ? 

She  is  sad  and  depressed  before  she  reaches  the  hall  door, 
where  she  is  unfortunate  enough  to  find  a  carriage  just  ar- 
rived, well  filled  with  occupants  eager  to  obtain  admission. 

They  are  the  Carsons,  mustered  in  force,  and,  if  anything, 
a  trifle  more  noisy  and  oppressive  than  usual. 

"  How  d'ye  do,  Mrs.  Rodney  ?  Is  Lady  llodney  at  home  ? 
I  hope  so,"  says  Mrs.  Carson,  a  fat,  florid,  smiling,  impossible 
person  of  fifty. 

Now,  Lady  Rodney  is  at  home,  but,  having  given  strict 
orders  to  the  servants  to  say  she  is  anywhere  else  they  like, — 
that  is,  to  tell  as  many  lies  as  will  save  her  from  intrusion, — 
is  just  now  reposing  calmly  in  the  small  drawing-room,  sleep- 
ing the  sleep  of  the  just,  unmindful  of  coming  evil. 

Of  all  this  Mona  is  unaware ;  though  even  were  it  other- 
wise I  doubt  if  a  lie  could  come  trippingly  to  her  lips,  or  a 
nice  evasion  be  balanced  there  at  a  moment's  notice.  Such 
foul  things  as  untruths  arc  unknown  to  her,  and  have  no 


MRS.  OEOFFREV.  233 

refiige  in  her  heart.  It  is  indeed  fortunate  tliat  on  this  occa- 
gion  she  knows  no  reason  why  her  reply  should  diflor  from  the 
truth,  because  in  that  case  I  think  she  would  stand  still,  and 
stammer  sadly,  and  grow  uncomfortably  red,  and  otherwise 
betray  the  fact  that  she  would  lie  if  she  knew  how. 

As  things  are,  however,  she  is  able  to  smile  pleasantly  at 
Mrs.  Carson,  and  tell  her  in  her  soft  voice  that  Lady  Rodney 
is  at  home. 

"  How  fortunate !"  says  that  fat  woman,  with  her  broad  ex 
pansive  grin  that  leaves  her  all  mouth,  with  no  eyes  or  nose 
to  speak  of.     "  We  hardly  dared  hope  for  such  good  luck  this 
charming  day." 

She  doesn't  put  any  g  into  her  "  charming,"  which,  how- 
ever, is  neither  here  nor  there,  and  is  perhaps  a  shabby  thing 
to  take  notice  of  at  all. 

Then  she  and  her  two  daughters  quit  the  "  coach,"  as  Car- 
son ph-e  insists  on  calling  the  landau,  and  flutter  through  the 
halls,  and  across  the  corridors,  after  Mona,  until  they  reach 
the  room  that  contains  Lady  lloduey. 

Mona  throws  open  the  door,  and  the  visitors  sail  in,  all 
open-eyed  and  smiling,  with  their  very  best  company  manners 
hung  out  for  the  day. 

But  almost  on  the  threshold  tJiey  come  to  a  full  itop,  to 
gaze  irresolutely  at  one  another,  and  then  over  their  shoulders 
at  Mona.  She,  marking  their  surprise,  comes  hastily  to  the 
front,  and  so  makes  herself  acquainted  with  the  cause  of  their 
delay. 

Overcome  by  the  heat  of  the  fire,  her  luncheon,  and  the 
blessed  certainty  that  for  this  one  day  at  least  no  one  is  to  be 
admitted  to  her  presence,  Lady  Rodney  has  given  herself  up 
a  willing  victim  to  the  child  Somnus.  Her  book — that  amia- 
ble assistant  of  all  those  that  court  siestas — has  fallen  to  the 
ground.  Her  cap  is  somewhat  awry.  Her  mouth  Ls  partly 
open,  and  a  snore — gentle,  indeed,  but  distinct  and  unmistak- 
able— comes  from  her  patrician  throat. 

It  is  a  moment  never  to  be  forgotten  I 

Mona,  horror-stricken,  goes  quickly  over  to  her,  and  touches 
her  lightly  on  the  shoulder. 

"  Mrs.  Carson  has  come  to  see  you,"  she  says,  in  an  agony 
of  fear,  giving  her  a  little  shake. 

"  Eh  ?  What  ?"  asks  Lady  Rodney,  in  a  daised  fashion,  yo> 
20* 


234  MRS.  OEOFFRET. 

coming  back  to  life  with  amazing  rapidity.  She  sits  up. 
Then  in  an  instant  the  situation  explains  itself  to  her ;  she 
collects  herself,  bestows  one  glance  of  passionate  anger  upon 
Mona,  and  then  rises  to  welcome  Mrs.  Carson  with  her  usual 
Buave  manner  and  bland  smile,  throwing  into  the  former  an 
air  meant  to  convey  the  flattering  idea  that  for  the  past  week 
she  has  been  living  on  the  hope  of  seeing  her  soon  again. 

She  excuses  her  unwonted  drowsiness  with  a  little  laugh, 
natural  and  friendly,  and  begs  them  "  not  to  betray  her." 
Clothed  in  all  this  sweetness  she  drops  a  word  or  two  meant  to 
crush  Mona ;  but  that  hapless  young  woman  hears  her  not, 
being  bent  on  explaining  to  Mrs.  Carson  that,  as  a  rule,  the 
Irish  peasantry  do  not  go  about  dressed  only  in  glass  beads, 
like  the  gay  and  festive  Zulus,  and  that  petticoats  and  breeches 
are  not  utterly  unknown. 

This  is  tough  work,  and  takes  her  all  her  time,  as  Mrs. 
Cai'son,  having  made  up  her  mind  to  the  beads,  accepts  it 
rather  badly  being  undeceived,  and  goes  nearly  so  far  as  tell- 
ing Mona  that  she  knows  little  or  nothing  about  her  owu 
people. 

Then  Violet  and  Doatie  drop  in,  and  conversation  becomes 
general,  and  presently  the  visit  comes  to  an  end,  and  the  Car- 
sons  fade  away,  and  Mona  is  left  to  bear  the  brunt  of  Lady 
Rodney's  anger,  which  has  been  steadily  growing,  instead  of 
decreasing,  during  the  past  half-hour. 

"  Are  there  no  servants  in  my  house,"  demands  she,  in  a 
terrible  tone,  addressing  Mona,  the  steely  light  coming  into 
her  blue  eyes  that  Mona  knows  and  hates  so  well,  '•  that  you 
must  feel  it  your  duty  to  guide  my  visitors  to  my  presence  ?" 

"  If  I  made  a  mistake  I  am  sorry  for  it,"  says  Mona,  earn- 
estly. 

"  It  was  unfortunate  Mona  should  have  met  them  at  the 
hall  door, — Edith  Carson  told  me  about  it, — but  it  could  not 
be  helped,"  says  Violet,  calmly. 

*'  No,  it  couldn't  be  helped,"  says  little  Doatie.  But  their 
intervention  only  appears  to  add  fuel  to  the  fire  of  Lady  Rod- 
ney's wrath. 

"  It  shall  be  helped,"  she  says,  in  a  low,  but  condensed  tone. 
*'  For  the  future  I  forbid  any  one  in  my  liouse  to  take  it  upon 
them  to  say  whether  I  am  in  or  out.  I  am  the  one  to  decide 
that.    On  what  principle  did  you  show  them  in  here  ?"  she  asks, 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  235 

turning  to  Mona,  ber  anger  increasing  as  she  remembers  the 
rakish  cap :  "  why  did  you  not  say,  when  you  were  unlucky 
enough  to  find  yourself  face  to  face  with  them,  that  I  was  not 
at  home  ?" 

"  Because  you  were  at  home,"  replies  Mona,  quietly,  though 
in  deep  distress. 

"That  doesn't  matter,"  says  Lady  Rodney :  "it  is  a  mere 
formula.  If  it  suited  your  purpose  you  could  have  said  so — 
1  don't  doubt — readily  enough." 

"  I  regret  that  I  met  them,"  says  Mona,  who  will  not  Bay 
she  regrets  she  told  the  truth. 

"  And  to  usher  them  in  here  I  Into  one  of  my  most  private 
rooms !  Unlikely  people,  like  the  Carsons,  whom  you  have 
heard  me  speak  of  in  disparaging  terms  a  hundred  times !  I 
don't  know  what  you  could  have  been  thinking  about.  Per- 
haps next  time  you  will  be  kind  enough  to  bring  them  to  my 
bedroom." 

"  You  misunderstand  me,"  says  Mona,  with  tears  in  her 
eyes. 

"  I  hardly  think  so.  You  can  refuse  to  see  people  yourself 
when  it  suits  you.  Only  yesterday,  when  Mr.  Boer,  our  rec- 
tor, called,  and  I  sent  for  you,  you  would  not  come." 

"  I  don't  like  Mr.  Boer,"  says  Mona,  "  and  it  was  not  me 
he  came  to  see." 

"  Still,  there  was  no  necessity  to  insult  him  with  such  a 
message  as  you  sent.  Perhaps,"  with  unpleasant  meaning, 
"  you  do  not  understand  that  to  say  you  are  busy  is  i-ather 
more  a  rudeness  than  an  excuse  for  one's  non-appearance." 

"  It  was  true,"  says  Mona :  "  I  was  writing  letters  for 
Geoffrey." 

"  Nevertheless,  you  might  have  waived  that  fact,  and  sent 
down  word  you  had  a  headache." 

"  But  I  hadn't  a  headache,"  says  Mona,  bending  her  large 
truthful  eyes  with  embarrassing  earnestness  upon  Lady  Rod- 
ney. 

"  Oh,  if  you  were  determined — "  returns  she,  with  a  shrug. 
"  I  was  not  determined :  you  mistake  me,"  exclaims  Mona, 
miserably.    "  I  simply  hadn't  a  headache :  I  never  had  one  in 
my  life, — and  I  shouldn't  know  how  to  get  one  1" 

At  this  point,  Geoffrey — who  has  been  hunting  all  the 
morning — enters  the  room  with  Captain  Rodney. 


236  MRS.  QEOFFRET. 

'*  Why,  what  is  the  matter  ?"  he  says,  seeing  signs  of  the 
lively  storm  on  all  their  faces.     Doatie  explains  hurriedly. 

"  Look  here,"  says  GeoflFrey.  "  I  won't  have  Mona  spoiled. 
If  she  hadn't  a  headache,  she  hadn't,  you  know,  and  if  you 
were  at  home,  why,  you  were,  and  that's  all  about  it.  Why 
should  she  tell  a  lie  about  it  ?" 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Geoffrey?"  demands  his  mother,  with 
suppressed  indignation. 

"  I  mean  that  she  shall  remain  just  as  she  is.  The  world 
may  be  '  given  to  lying,'  as  Shakspeare  tells  us,  but  I  will  not 
have  Mona  tutored  into  telling  fashionable  falsehoods,"  says 
this  intrepid  young  man,  facing  his  mother  without  a  qualm 
or  a  passing  dread.  "  A  lie  of  any  sort  is  base,  and  a  pre- 
varication is  only  a  mean  lie.  She  is  truthful,  let  her  stay  so. 
Why  should  she  learn  it  is  the  correct  thing  to  say  she  is  not 
at  home  when  she  is,  or  that  she  is  suffering  from  a  foolish 
megrim  when  she  isn't  ?  I  don't  suppose  there  is  much  harm 
in  saying  either  of  these  things,  as  nobody  ever  believes  them  ; 
but — let  her  remain  as  she  is." 

"  Is  she  also  to  learn  that  you  are  at  liberty  to  lecture  your 
own  mother  ?"  asks  Lady  Rodney,  pale  with  anger. 

"  I  am  not  lecturing  any  one,"  replies  he,  looking  very  like 
her,  now  that  his  face  has  whitened  a  little  and  a  quick  fire 
has  lit  itself  within  his  eyes.  "  I  am  merely  speaking  against 
a  general  practice.  '  Dare  to  be  true  :  nothing  can  need  a  lie,' 
is  a  line  that  always  returns  to  me.  And,  as  I  love  Mona 
better  than  anything  on  earth,  I  shall  make  it  the  business  of 
my  life  to  see  she  is  not  made  unhappy  by  any  one." 

At  this  Mona  lifts  her  head,  and  turns  upon  him  eyes  full 
of  the  tenderest  love  and  trust.  She  would  iiave  dearly  liked 
to  go  to  him,  and  place  her  arms  round  his  neck,  and  thank 
him  with  a  fond  caress  for  this  dear  speech,  but  some  innate 
sense  of  breeding  restrains  her. 

Any  demonstration  on  her  part  just  now  may  make  a  scene, 
and  scenes  are  ever  abhorrent.  And  might  she  not  yet  further 
widen  the  breach  between  mother  and  son  by  an  ill-timed  show 
of  affection  for  the  latter  ? 

"  Still,  sometimes,  you  know,  it  is  awkward  to  adhere  to  the 
very  letter  of  the  law,"  says  Jack  Rodney,  easily.  "  Is  tliere 
no  compromise  ?  I  have  heard  of  women  who  have  made  a 
point  of  running  into  the  kitchen-garden  when  unwelcome 


MRS.  OEOFFREY.  237 

visitors  were  announced,  and  so  saved  themselves  and  their 
principles.     Couldn't  Mona  do  that  ?" 

This  speech  is  made  much  of,  and  laughed  at  for  no  reason 
whatever  except  that  Violet  and  Doatie  are  determined  to  end 
the  unpleasant  discussion  by  any  means,  even  though  it  may 
be  at  the  risk  of  being  deemed  silly.  After  some  careful 
management  they  get  Mona  out  of  the  room,  and  carry  her 
away  with  them  to  a  little  den  off  the  eastern  hall,  that  is 
very  dear  to  them. 

"  It  is  the  most  unhappy  thing  I  ever  heard  of,"  begins 
Doatie,  desperately.  "  What  Lady  Rodney  can  see  to  dislike 
in  you,  Mona,  I  can't  imagine.  But  the  fact  rests,  she  is 
hateful  to  you.  Now,  we,"  glancing  at  Violet,  "  who  are  not 
particularly  amiable,  are  beloved  by  her,  whilst  you,  who  are 
all  '  sweetness  and  light,'  she  detests  most  heartily." 

"  It  is  true,"  says  Violet,  evenly.  "  Yet,  dear  Mona,  I  wish 
you  could  try  to  be  a  little  more  like  the  rest  of  the  world." 

"  I  want  to  very  much,"  says  poor  Mona,  her  eyes  filling 
with  tears.  "  But,"  hopelessly,  "  must  I  begin  by  learning  to 
tell  lies?"     All  this  teaching  is  very  bitter  to  her. 

"Lies!  Oh,  fie!"  says  Doatie.  "Who  tells  lies?  No- 
body, except  the  naughty  little  boys  in  tracts,  and  they  always 
break  their  legs  off  apple-trees,  or  else  get  drowned  on  a  Sun- 
day morning.  Now,  we  are  not  drowned,  and  our  legs  are 
uninjured.  No,  a  lie  is  a  horrid  thing, — so  low,  and  in  such 
wretched  taste.  But  there  are  little  social  fibs  that  may  be 
uttered, — little  taradiddles, — that  do  no  harm  to  anybody,  and 
that  nobody  believes  in,  but  all  pretend  to,  just  for  the  sake  of 
politeness." 

Thus  Doatie,  looking  preternaturally  wise,  but  faintly  puz- 
zled at  her  own  view  of  the  question. 

"  It  doesn't  sound  right,"  says  Mona,  shaking  her  head. 

"  She  doesn't  understand,"  puts  in  Violet,  quickly.  "  Mona, 
are  you  going  to  see  everybody  that  may  choose  to  call  upou 
you,  good,  bad,  and  indifferent,  from  this  till  you  die?" 

"  I  suppose  so,"  says  Mona,  lifting  her  brows. 

"  Then  I  can  only  say  I  pity  you,"  says  Miss  Mansergh, 
leaning  back  in  her  chair,  with  the  air  of  one  who  would  say, 
"  Argument  here  is  in  vain." 

"  I  sha'n't  want  to  see  them,  perhaps,"  says  Mona,  apolo- 
getically, "but  how  shall  I  avoid  it?" 


238  MRS.  GEOFFREY. 

"  Ah  !  now,  that  is  more  reasonable  ;  now  we  are  coming  to 
it,"  says  Doatie,  briskly.  "  We  *  return  to  our  muttons.'  As 
Lady  Rodney,  in  a  very  rude  manner,  tried  to  explain  to  you, 
you  will  either  say  you  are  not  at  home,  or  that  you  have  a 
headache.  The  latter  is  not  so  good  ;  it  carries  more  offence 
with  it,  but  it  comes  in  pretty  well  sometimes." 

''  But,  as  I  said  to  Lady  Rodney,  suppose  I  haven't  a  head- 
ache," retorts  Mona,  triumphantly. 

"  Oh,  you  are  incorrigible  1"  says  Doatie,  leaning  back  in 
her  chair  in  turn,  and  tilting  backward  her  little  flower-like 
face,  that  looks  as  if  even  the  most  harmless  falsehood  must 
be  unknown  to  it. 

"  Could  you  not  imagine  you  had  one  ?"  she  says,  presently, 
as  a  last  resource. 

"  I  could  not,"  says  Mona.  "  I  am  always  quite  well." 
She  is  standing  before  them  like  a  culprit  called  to  the  bar  of 
justice.  "  I  never  had  a  headache,  or  a  toothache,  or  a  night- 
mare, in  my  life." 

"  Or  an  umbrella,  you  should  add.  I  once  knew  a  woman 
like  that,  but  she  was  not  like  you,"  says  Doatie.  "  Well,  if 
you  are  going  to  be  as  literal  as  you  now  are,  until  you  call 
for  your  shroud,  I  must  say  I  don't  envy  you." 

"  '  Be  virtuous  and  you'll  be  happy,  but  you  won't  have  a 
good  time,'  "  quotes  Violet ;  "  you  should  take  to  heart  that 
latest  of  copy-book  texts." 

"  Oh,  fancy  receiving  the  Boers  whenever  they  call !"  says 
Doatie,  faintly,  with  a  deep  sigh  that  is  almost  a  groan. 

"  I  sha'n't  mind  it  very  much,"  says  Mona,  earnestly.  "  It 
will  be,  after  all,  only  one  half-hour  out  of  my  whole  day." 

"  You  don't  know  what  you  are  talking  about,"  says 
Doatie,  vehemently.  "  Every  one  of  those  interminable  half- 
hours  will  be  a  year  off  your  life.  Mr.  Boer  is  obnoxious,  but 
Florence  is  simply  insupportable.  Wait  till  she  begins  about 
the  choir,  and  those  hateful  school-children,  and  the  parish 
subsidies  ;  then  you  perhaps  will  learn  wisdom,  and  grow  head- 
aches if  you  have  them  not.  Violet,  what  is  it  Jack  calls  Mr. 
Boer  ?" 

"  Better  not  remember  it,"  says  Violet,  but  she  smiles  as 
she  calls  to  mind  Jack's  apt  quotation. 

"  Why  not?  it  just  suits  him  :  '  A  little,  round,  fat,  oily 
man  of '  " 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  239 

*'  Hush,  Dorothy  1  It  was  very  wrong  of  Jack,"  interrupts 
Violet.  But  Mona  laughs  for  the  first  time  for  many  hours, — 
which  delights  Doatie. 

"  You  and  I  appreciate  Jack,  if  she  doesn't,  don't  we, 
Mona?"  she  says,  with  pretty  malice,  echoing  Mona's  merri- 
ment. After  which  the  would-be  lecture  comes  to  an  end, 
and  the  three  girls,  clothing  themselves  in  furs,  go  for  a  short 
walk  before  the  day  quite  closes  in. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

HOW   THE   TOWERS   WAKES    INTO    LIFE — AND     HOW    MONA 
SHOWS   THE   LIBRARY   TO    PAUL   RODNEY. 

Lights  are  blazing,  fiddles  are  sounding ;  all  the  world  is 
abroad  to-night.  Even  still,  though  the  ball  at  the  Towers 
has  been  opened  long  since  by  Mona  and  the  Duke  of  Lau- 
derdale, the  flickering  light  of  carriage-lamps  is  making  the 
roads  bright,  by  casting  tiny  rays  upon  the  frosted  ground. 

The  fourth  dance  has  come  to  an  end  ;  cards  are  full ;  every 
one  is  settling  down  to  work  in  earnest ;  already  the  first  touch 
of  satisfaction  or  of  carefully-suppressed  disappointment  is 
making  itself  felt. 

Mona,  who  has  again  been  dancing  with  the  duke,  stopping 
near  where  the  duchess  is  sitting,  the  latter  beckons  her  to 
her  side  by  a  slight  wave  of  her  fan.  To  the  duchess  "  a 
thing  of  beauty  is  a  joy  forever,"  and  to  gaze  on  Mona's  lovely 
face  and  admire  her  tranquil  but  brilliant  smile  gives  her  a 
strange  pleasure. 

"  Come  and  sit  by  me.  You  can  spare  me  a  few  minutes," 
she  says,  drawing  her  ample  skirts  to  one  side.  Mona,  taking 
her  hand  from  Lauderdale's  arm,  drops  into  the  proffered  seat 
beside  his  mother,  much  to  that  young  man's  chagrin,  who, 
having  inherited  the  maternal  hankering'  after  that  "  delight- 
fiil  prejudice,"  as  Theocritus  terms  beauty,  is  decidedly  ipris 
with  Mrs.  Geoffrey,  and  takes  it  badly  being  dune  out  of  his 
tite-d-tete  with  her. 


240  MRS.  OEOFFREY. 

'*  Mrs.  Rodney  would  perhaps  prefer  to  dance,  mother,"  he 
eays,  with  some  irritation. 

"  Mrs.  Rodney  will  not  mind  wasting  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
on  an  old  woman,"  says  the  duchess,  equably. 

"  I  am  not  so  sure  of  that,"  says  Mona,  with  admirable 
tact  and  an  exquisite  smile,  "  but  I  shouldn't  mind  spending 
an  hour  with  you." 

Lauderdale  makes  a  little  face,  and  tells  himself  secretly 
"  all  women  are  liars,"  but  the  duchess  is  very  pleased,  and 
bends  her  friendliest  glance  upon  the  pretty  creature  at  her 
side,  who  possesses  that  greatest  of  all  charms,  inability  to  no- 
tice the  ravages  of  time. 

Perhaps  another  reason  for  Mona's  having  found  such  favor 
in  the  eyes  of  "  the  biggest  woman  in  our  shire,  sir,"  lies  in 
the  fact  that  she  is  in  many  ways  so  totally  unlike  all  the  other 
young  women  with  whom  the  duchess  is  in  the  habit  of  asso- 
ciating. She  is  naive  to  an  extraordinary  degree,  and  says 
and  does  things  that  might  appear  outrd  in  others,  but  are 
so  much  a  part  of  Mona  that  it  neither  startles  nor  oflfeuds 
one  when  she  gives  way  to  them. 

Just  now,  for  example,  a  pause  occurring  in  the  conversa- 
tion, Mona,  fastening  her  eyes  upon  her  Grace's  neck,  says, 
with  genuine  admiration, — 

"  What  a  lovely  necklace  you  are  wearing  !" 

To  make  personal  remarks,  we  all  know,  is  essentially  vulgar, 
is  indeed  a  breach  of  the  common&st  show  of  good  breeding ; 
yet  somehow  Mrs.  Geoffrey's  tone  does  not  touch  on  vulgarity, 
does  not  even  belong  to  the  outermost  skirts  of  ill-breeding. 
She  has  an  inborn  gentleness  of  her  own,  that  carries  her 
safely  over  all  social  difficulties. 

The  duchess  is  amused. 

"  It  is  pretty,  I  think,"  she  says.  "  The  duke,"  with  a 
grave  look,  "  gave  it  to  me  just  two  years  after  my  son  was 
born." 

"  Did  he  ?"  says  Mona.  "  Geoffrey  gave  me  these  pearls," 
pointing  to  a  pretty  string  round  her  own  white  neck,  "  a  month 
after  we  were  married.  It  seems  quite  a  long  time  ago  now," 
with  a  sigh  and  a  little  smile.  "  But  your  opals  are  perfect. 
Just  like  the  moonlight.  By  the  by,"  as  if  it  has  suddenly 
occurred  to  her,  "  did  you  ever  see  the  lake  by  moonlight  ?  I 
mean  from  the  muUioned  window  in  the  north  gallery  ?" 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  241 

"  The  lake  here  ?     No,"  says  the  duchess. 

"  Haven't  you  ?"  in  surprise.  "  Why  it  it  the  most  en- 
chanting thing  in  the  world.  Oh,  you  must  see  it :  you  will 
be  delighted  with  it.  Come  with  me,  and  I  will  show  it  to 
you,"  says  Mona,  eagerly,  rising  from  her  stiat  in  her  impul- 
sive fashion. 

She  is  plainly  very  much  in  earnest,  and  has  fixed  her  large 
expressive  eyes — lovely  as  loving — with  calm  expectancy  upon 
the  duchess.  She  has  altogether  forgotten  that  she  is  a  duchess 
(perhaps,  indeed,  has  never  quite  grasped  the  fact),  and  that 
she  is  an  imposing  and  portly  person  not  accustomed  to  exer- 
cise of  any  description. 

For  a  moment  her  Grace  hesitates,  then  is  lost.  It  is  to 
her  a  new  sensation  to  be  taken  about  by  a  young  woman  to 
see  things.  Up  to  this  it  has  been  she  who  has  taken  the 
young  women  about  to  see  things.  But  Mona  is  so  openly 
and  genuinely  anxious  to  bestow  a  favor  upon  her,  to  do  her, 
in  fact,  a  good  turn,  that  she  is  subdued,  sweetened,  nay,  al- 
most flattered,  by  this  artless  desire  to  please  her  for  "  love's 
sake"  alone. 

She  too  rises,  lays  her  hand  on  Mona's  arm,  and  walks 
through  the  long  room,  and  past  the  county  generally,  to  "  see 
the  lake  by  moonlight."  Yet  it  is  not  for  the  sake  of  gazing 
upon  almost  unrivalled  scenery  she  goes,  but  to  please  this 
Irish  girl,  whom  so  very  few  can  resist. 

"  Where  has  Mona  taken  the  duchess  ?"  asks  Lady  Rodney 
of  Sir  Nicholas  half  an  hour  later. 

"  She  took  her  to  see  the  lake.  Mona,  you  know,  raves 
about  it,  when  the  moon  lights  it  up." 

"  She  is  very  absurd,  and  more  troublesome  and  unpleasant 
than  anybody  I  ever  had  in  my  house.  Of  course  the  duchess 
did  not  want  to  see  the  water.  She  was  talking  to  old  Lord 
Dering  about  the  drainage  question,  and  seemed  quite  happy, 
when  that  girl  interfered.  Common  courtesy  compelled  her,  I 
suppose,  to  say  yes  to — Mona's — proposition." 

"  I  hardly  think  the  duchess  is  the  sort  of  woman  to  say 
yes  when  she  meant  no,"  says  Nicholas,  with  a  half  smile. 
"  She  went  because  it  so  pleased  her,  and  for  no  other  reason. 
I  begin  to  think,  indeed,  that  Lilian  Chetwoode  is  rather  out 
of  it,  and  that  Mona  is  the  first  favorite  at  present.  She  has 
evidently  taken  the  duchess  by  storm." 
L        y  21 


242  MRS.  GEOFFREY. 

"  Why  not  say  the  duke  too  ?"  says  his  mother,  with  a  cold 
glance,  to  whom  praise  of  Mona  is  anything  but  "  cakes  and 
ale."  "  Her  flirtation  with  him  is  very  apparent.  It  is  dis- 
graceful. Every  one  is  noticing  and  talking  about  it.  Geof- 
frey alone  seems  determined  to  see  nothing  1  Like  all  under- 
bred people,  she  cannot  know  satisfaction  unless  perched  upoa 
the  topmost  rung  of  the  ladder." 

"  You  are  slightly  nonsensical  when  on  the  subject  of 
Mona,"  says  Sir  Nicholas,  with  a  shrug.  "  Intrigue  and  she 
could  not  exist  in  the  same  atmosphere.  She  is  to  Lauderdale 
what  she  is  to  every  one  else, — gay,  bright,  and  utterly  want- 
ing in  self-conceit.  I  cannot  understand  how  it  is  that  you 
alone  refuse  to  acknowledge  her  charms.  To  me  she  is  like  a 
little  soft  sunbeam  floating  here  and  there,  and  falling  into  the 
hearts  of  those  around  her,  carrying  light,  and  joy,  and  laugh- 
ter, and  merry  music  with  her  as  she  goes." 

"  You  speak  like  a  lover,"  says  Lady  Rodney,  with  an  arti- 
ficial laugh.  "  Do  you  repeat  all  this  to  Dorothy  ?  She  must 
find  it  very  interesting." 

"  Dorothy  and  I  are  quite  agreed  about  IMona,"  replies  he, 
calmly.  "  She  likes  her  as  much  as  I  do.  As  to  what  you 
say  about  her  encouraging  Lauderdale's  attentions,  it  is  absurd. 
No  such  evil  thought  could  enter  her  head." 

At  this  instant  a  soft  ringing  laugh,  that  once  heard  is  not 
easily  forgotten,  comes  from  an  inner  room,  that  is  carefully 
curtained  and  delicately  lighted,  and  smites  upon  their  ears. 

It  is  I\Iona's  laugh.  Raising  their  eyes,  both  mother  and 
son  turn  their  heads  hastily  (and  quite  involuntarily)  and  gaze 
upon  the  scene  beyond.  They  are  so  situated  that  they  can 
see  into  the  curtained  chamber  and  mark  the  picture  it  con- 
tains. The  duke  is  bending  over  Mona  in  a  manner  that 
might  perhaps  be  termed  by  an  outsider  slightly  empress^,  and 
Mona  is  looking  up  at  him,  and  both  are  laughing  gayly, — 
Mona  with  all  the  freshness  of  unchecked  youth,  the  duke 
with  such  a  thorough  and  wholesome  sense  of  enjoyment  aa 
he  has  not  known  for  years. 

Then  Mona  rises,  and  they  both  come  to  the  entrance  ol 
the  small  room,  and  stand  where  Lady  Rodney  can  overhear 
what  they  are  saying. 

"  Oh !  so  you  can  ride,  then,"  says  Lauderdale,  alluding 
probably  to  the  cause  of  his  late  merriment. 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  243 

"  Sure  of  course,"  says  Mona.     "  Why,  I  used  to  ride  the 

3olts  barebacked  at  home." 

Lady  Rodney  shudders. 

"  Sometimes  I  long  again  for  a  mad,  wild  gallop  straight 
across  country,  where  nobody  can  see  me, — such  as  I  used  to 
have,"  goes  on  Mona,  half  regretfully. 

"  And  who  allowed  you  to  risk  your  life  like  that  ?"  asks 
the  duke,  with  simple  amazement.  His  sister  before  she 
married  was  not  permitted  to  cross  the  threshold  without  a 
guardian  at  her  side.     This  girl  is  a  revelation. 

"  No  one,"  says  Mona.  "  I  had  no  need  to  ask  permission 
for  anything.     I  was  free  to  do  what  I  wished." 

She  looks  up  at  him  again  with  some  fire  in  her  eyes  and 
a  flush  upon  her  cheeks.  Perhaps  some  of  the  natural  law- 
lessness of  her  kindred  is  making  her  blood  warm.  So  stand- 
ing, however,  she  is  the  verj'  embodiment  of  youth  and  love 
and  sweetness,  and  so  the  duke  admits. 

"  Have  you  any  sisters?"  he  asks,  vaguely. 

"  No.     Nor  brothers.     Only  myself. 

"  '  r  am  all  the  daughters  of  my  father's  house, 
And  all  the  brothers  too  !'" 

She  nods  her  head  gayly  as  she  says  this,  being  pleased  at 
her  apt  quotation  from  the  one  book  she  has  studied  very 
closely. 

The  duke  loses  his  head  a  little. 

"  Do  you  know,"  he  says,  slowly,  staring  at  her  the  while, 
"  you  are  the  most  beautiful  woman  I  ever  saw  ?" 

"  Ah  !  so  Geoffrey  says,"  returns  she,  with  a  perfectly  un- 
embarrassed and  pleased  little  laugh,  while  a  great  gleam  of 
tender  love  comes  into  her  eyes  as  she  makes  mention  of  her 
husband's  name.     "  But  I  really  am  not,  you  know." 

This  answer,  being  so  full  of  thorough  unconsciousness  and 
childish  naivete,  has  the  effect  of  reducing  the  duke  to  com- 
mon sense  once  more,  and  of  making  him  very  properly 
ashamed  of  himself  He  feels,  however,  rather  out  of  it  for 
a  minute  or  two,  which  feeling  renders  him  silent  and  some- 
what distrait.  So  Mona,  flung  upon  her  own  resources,  looka 
round  the  room  seeking  for  inspiration,  and  presently  finds  it. 

"  What  a  disagreeable-looking  man  that  is  over  there  I"  sho 


244  MRS.   OEOFFREV. 

Bays :  "  the  man  with  the  shaggy  beard,  I  mean,  and  the  long 
hair." 

She  doesn't  want  in  the  very  least  to  know  who  he  is,  but 
thinks  it  her  duty  to  say  something,  as  the  silence  being  pro- 
tracted grows  embarrassing. 

"The  man  with  the  mane?  that  is  GriflBth  Blount.  The 
most  objectionable  person  any  one  could  meet,  but  tolerated  be- 
cause his  tongue  is  so  awful.  Do  you  know  Colonel  Graves  ? 
No  I  Well,  he  has  a  wife  calculated  to  terrify  the  bravest 
man  into  submission,  and  last  year  when  he  was  going  abroad 
Blount  met  him,  and  asked  him  before  a  roomful  '  if  he  was 
going  for  pleasure,  or  if  he  was  going  to  take  his  wife  with 
him.'  Neat,  wasn't  it?  But  I  don't  remember  hearing 
that  Graves  liked  it.' 

"  It  was  very  unkind,"  says  Mona ;  "  and  he  has  a  hateful 
face." 

"  He  has,"  says  the  duke.  "  But  he  has  his  reward,  you 
know :  nobody  likes  him.  By  the  by,  what  horrid  bad  times 
they  are  having  in  your  land  I — ricks  of  hay  burning  nightly, 
cattle  killed,  everybody  boycotted,  and  small  children  speared  !" 

"  Oh,  no,  not  that,"  says  Mona.  "  Poor  Ireland  !  Every 
one  either  laughs  at  her  or  hates  her.  Though  I  like  my 
adopted  country,  still  I  shall  always  feel  for  old  Erin  what  I 
could  never  feel  for  another  land." 

"  And  quite  right  too,"  says  Lauderdale.  "  You  remember 
what  Scott  says : 

"  '  Breathes  there  the  man,  with  soul  so  dead, 
Who  never  to  himself  hath  said, 
This  is  my  own,  my  native  land  !'  " 

"Oh,  yes,  lots  of  'em,"  says  Mr.  Darling,  who  has  come 
suddenly  up  besides  them :  "  for  instance,  I  don't  believe  I 
ever  said  it  in  all  my  life,  either  to  myself  or  to  any  one  else. 
Are  you  engaged,  Mrs.  Geoffrey  ?  And  if  not,  may  I  aave 
this  dar.ce?" 

"  With  pleasure,"  says  Mona- 

Paul  Rodney,  true  to  his  word,  has  put  in  an  appearance, 
much  to  the  amazement  of  many  in  the  room.  Almost  as 
Mona's  dance  with  Nolly  is  at  an  end,  he  makes  his  way  to 
her,  and  asks  her  to  give  him  the  next.     Unfortunately,  she 


MRS.   GEOFFREY.  245 

is  not  engaged  for  it,  and,  being  unversed  in  polite  evasions,  she 
says  yes,  quietly,  and  is  soon  floating  round  the  room  with  him. 

After  one  turn  she  stops  abruptly,  near  an  entrance. 

"  Tired?"  says  Rodney,  fixing  his  black,  gloomy  eyes  upon 
Her. 

"  A  little,"  says  Mona.  It  is  perhaps  the  nearest  approach 
to  a  falsehood  she  has  ever  made. 

"  Perhaps  you  would  rather  rest  for  a  while.  Do  you  know 
tliis  is  the  first  time  I  have  ever  been  inside  the  Towers  ?" 
lie  says  this  as  one  might  who  is  desirous  of  making  conver- 
sation, yet  there  is  a  covert  meaning  in  his  tone.  Mona  is 
silent.  To  her  it  seems  a  base  thing  that  he  should  have 
accepted  the  invitation  at  all. 

"  I  have  heard  the  library  is  a  room  well  worth  seeing," 
goes  on  the  Australian,  seeing  she  will  not  speak. 

"  Yes ;  every  one  admires  it.  It  is  very  old.  You  know 
one  part  of  the  Towers  is  older  than  all  the  rest." 

"  I  have  heard  so.  I  should  like  to  see  the  library,"  says 
Paul,  looking  at  her  expectantly. 

"  You  can  see  it  now  if  you  wish,"  says  Mona,  quickly : 
the  thought  that  she  may  be  able  to  entertain  him  in  some 
fashion  that  will  not  require  conversation  is  dear  to  her.  She 
therefore  takes  his  arm,  and  leads  him  out  of  the  ball-room, 
and  across  the  halls  into  the  library,  which  is  brilliantly 
lighted,  but  just  at  this  moment  empty. 

I  forget  if  I  described  it  before,  but  it  is  a  room  quite  per- 
fect in  every  respect,  a  beautiful  room,  oak-panelled  from  floor 
to  ceiling,  with  this  peculiarity  about  it,  that  whereas  three  of 
the  walls  have  their  panels  quite  long,  without  a  break  from 
top  to  bottom,  the  third — that  is,  the  one  in  which  the  fir» 
place  has  been  inserted — has  the  panels  of  a  smaller  size,  cut 
dp  into  pieces  from  about  one  foot  broad  to  two  feet  long. 

The  Australian  seems  particularly  struck  with  this  fact.  He 
stares  in  a  thoughtful  fashion  at  the  wall  with  the  small  panels, 
seeming  blind  to  the  other  beauties  of  the  room. 

*'  Yes,  it  is  strange  why  that  wall  should  be  different  from 
the  others,"  Mona  says,  rather  glad  that  he  appears  interested 
in  something  besides  herself  "  But  it  is  altogether  quite  a 
nice  old  room,  is  it  not?" 

"  It  is,"  replies  he,  absently.  Then,  below  his  breath,  "  and 
well  worth  fighting  for." 

21* 


246  MRS.  GEOFFREY. 

But  Mona  docs  not  hear  this  last  addition  :  she  is  moving 
a  chair  a  little  to  one  side,  and  the  faint  noise  it  makes  drowns 
the  sound  of  his  voice.     This  perhaps  is  as  well. 

She  turns  up  one  of  the  lamps,  whilst  Rodney  still  con- 
tinues his  contemplation  of  the  wall  before  him.  Conversa- 
tion languishes,  then  dies.  Mona,  raising  her  hand  to  her 
lips,  suppresses  valiantly  a  yawn. 

"  I  hope  you  are  enjoying  yourself,"  she  says,  presently, 
hardly  knowing  what  else  to  say. 

"  Enjoying  myself? — No.  I  never  do  that,"  says  Rodney, 
with  unexpected  frankness. 

"  You  can  hardly  mean  that?"  says  Mona,  with  some  sur- 
prise. 

"  I  do.  Just  now,"  looking  at  her,  "  I  am  perhaps  as  near 
enjoyment  as  I  can  be.  But  I  have  not  danced  before  to 
night.  Nor  should  I  have  danced  at  all  had  you  been  en- 
gaged.    I  have  forgotten  what  it  is  to  be  light-hearted." 

"  But  surely  there  must  be  moments  when " 

"  I  never  have  such  moments,"  interrupts  he,  moodily. 

"  Dear  me  !  what  a  terribly  unpleasant  young  man  !"  thinks 
Mona,  at  her  wits'  end  to  know  what  to  say  next.  Tapping 
her  fingers  in  a  perplexed  llishion  on  the  table  nearest  her, 
fihe  wonders  when  he  will  cease  his  exhaustive  survey  of  tho 
walls  and  give  her  an  opportunity  of  leaving  the  room. 

"  But  that  is  very  sad  for  you,  isn't  it?"  she  says,  feeling 
herself  in  duty  bound  to  say  something. 

"  I  dare  say  it  is  ;  but  the  fact  remains.  I  don't  know  what 
is  the  matter  with  me.  It  is  a  barren  feeling, — a  longing,  it 
may  be,  for  something  T  can  never  obtain." 

"  All  that  is  morbid,"  says  Mona:  "you  should  try  to  con- 
quer it.     It  is  not  healthy." 

"  You  speak  like  a  book,"  says  Rodney,  with  an  unlovely 
laugh  ;  "  but  advice  seldom  cures.  I  only  know  that  I  have 
learned  what  stagnation  means.  I  may  alter  in  time,  of 
course,  but  just  at  present  I  feel  that 

*  My  night  has  no  eve, 
And  my  day  has  no  morning.' 

At  home — in  Sydney,  I  mean — the  life  was  dilTerent.  It 
was  free,  unfettered,  and  in  a  degree  lawless.  It  suited  me 
better." 


MRS.  O  EOF  FRET.  247 

"  Then  why  don't  you  go  back  ?"  suggests  Mona,  simply. 

"Because  I  have  work  to  do  here,"  retorts  he,  grimly. 
"  Yet  ever  since  I  first  set  foot  on  this  soil,  contentment  has 
gone  from  me.  Abroad  a  man  lives,  here  he  exists.  There, 
he  carries  his  life  in  his  hand,  and  trusts  to  his  revolver  rather 
than  to  the  most  learned  of  counsels,  but  here  all  is  on  another 
footing." 

"  It  is  to  be  regretted  you  cannot  like  England,  a.s  you  have 

made  up  your  mind  to  live  in  it ;  and  yet  I  think "     She 

pauses. 

u  Yes— you  think ;    go  on,"  says  Rodney,  gazing  at  her 

attentively. 

"  Well,  then,  I  think  it  is  only  just  you  should  be  un- 
happy," says  Mona,  with  some  vehemence.  "  Those  who 
seek  to  scatter  misery  broadcast  among  their  fellows  should 
learn  to  taste  of  it  themselves." 

"  Why  do  you  accuse  me  of  such  a  desire?"  asks  he,  paling 
beneath  her  indignation,  and  losing  courage  because  of  the 
unshed  tears  that  are  gleaming  in  her  eyes. 

"  When  you  gain  your  point  and  find  yourself  master  here, 
you  will  know  you  have  made  not  only  one,  but  many  people 
miserable."  ,        ^^ 

"  You  seem  to  take  my  success  in  this  case  as  a  certainty,' 
he  says,  with  a  frown.    "  I  may  fail." 

"  Oh  that  I  could  believe  so  !"  says  IMona,  forgetful  of  man- 
ners, courtesy,  everything,  but  the  desire  to  see  those  she  loves 
restored  to  peace. 

"  You  are  candor  itself,"  returns  he,  with  a  short  laugh, 
shrugging  his  shoulders.  "  Of  course  I  am  bound  to  hope 
your'wish  may  be  fulfilled.  And  yet  I  doubt  it.  I  am  nearer 
my  object  to-night  than  I  have  ever  been  before  ;  and,"  with  a 
sardonic  smile,  "  yours  has  been  the  hand  to  help  me  forward." 

Mona  starts,  and  regards  him  fixedly  in  a  puzzled,  uncertain 
manner.  What  he  can  possibly  mean  is  unknown  to  her ;  but 
yet  she  is  aware  of  some  inward  feeling,  some  instinct  such  aa 
animals  possess,  that  warns  her  to  beware  of  him.  She  shrinks 
from  him,  and  in  doing  so  a  slight  fold  of  her  dress  catches  in 
the  handle  of  a  writing-table,  and  detains  her. 

Paul,  dropping  on  his  knees  before  hor,  releases  her  gown ; 
the  fold  is  in  his  grasp,  and  still  holding  it  he  looks  up  at  her, 
his  face  pale  and  almost  haggard. 


£48  MRS.  GEOFFREY. 

"  If  I  were  to  resign  all  hope  of  gaining  the  Towers,  if  I 
were  to  consent  to  leave  your  people  still  in  possession,"  he 
says,  passionately,  but  in  a  low  tone,  "  should  I  earn  one  ten- 
der thought  in  your  heart  ?     Speak,  Mona  I  speak  I" 

I  am  sure  at  even  this  supreme  moment  it  never  entera 
Mona's  brain  that  the  man  is  actually  making  love  to  her.  A 
deep  pity  for  him  fills  her  mind.  He  is  unhappy, — justly 
so,  no  doubt,  but  yet  unhappy.  A  sure  passport  to  her 
heart. 

"  I  do  not  think  unkindly  of  you,"  she  says,  gently,  but 
coldly.  "  And  do  as  your  conscience  dictates,  and  you  will 
gain  not  only  my  respect,  but  that  of  all  men." 

"  Bah  !"  he  says,  impatiently,  rising  from  the  ground  and 
turning  away.  Her  answer  has  frozen  him  again,  has  dried 
jp  the  momentary  desire  for  her  approbation  above  all  others 
that  only  a  minute  ago  had  agitated  his  breast. 

At  this  moment  Geoffrey  comes  into  the  room  and  up  to 
Mona.     He  takes  no  notice  whatever  of  her  companion. 

"  Mona,  will  you  come  and  sing  us  something  ?"  he  says,  as 
naturally  as  though  the  room  is  empty.  "  Nolly  has  been 
telling  the  duchess  about  your  voice,  and  she  wants  to  hear 
you.  Anything  simple,  darling," — seeing  she  looks  a  little 
distressed  at  the  idea :  "  you  sing  that  sort  of  thing  best." 

"  I  hardly  think  our  dance  is  ended  yet,  Mrs.  Rodney," 
lays  the  Australian,  defiantly,  coming  leisurely  forward,  his 
eyes  bent  somewhat  insolently  upon  Geoffrey. 

"  You  will  come,  Mona,  to  oblige  the  duchess,"  says  Geof- 
frey, in  exactly  as  even  a  tone  as  if  the  other  had  never  spoken. 
Not  that  he  cares  in  the  very  least  about  the  duchess ;  but  he 
is  determined  to  conquer  here,  and  is  also  desirous  that  all  the 
world  should  appreciate  and  admire  the  woman  he  loves. 

"  I  will  come,  of  course,"  says  Mona,  nervously,  "  but  I  am 
afraid  she  will  be  disappointed.  You  will  excuse  me,  Mr. 
Rodney,  I  am  sure,"  turning  graciously  to  Paul,  who  is  stand- 
ing with  folded  arms  in  the  background. 

'*  Yes,  I  excuse  you"  he  says,  with  a  curious  stress  upon 
the  pronoun,  and  a  rather  strained  smile.  The  room  is  filling 
with  other  people,  the  last  dance  having  plainly  come  to  an 
end.     Greoffrey,  taking  Mona's  arn^,  'eads  her  into  the  hall. 

"  Dance  no  more  to-night  with  that  I'ellow,"  he  says,  quickly, 
as  they  get  outside. 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  249 

"No?"  Then,  "Not  if  you  dislike  it,  of  course.^  But 
Nicholas  made  a  point  of  my  being  nice  to  him.  I  did  not 
know  you  would  object  to  my  dancing  with  him." 

"  Well,  you  know  it  now.  I  do  object,"  says  Geoffrey,  in 
a  tone  he  has  never  used  to  her  before.  Not  that  it  is  unkind 
or  rude,  but  cold  and  unlover-like. 

"  Yes,  I  know  it  now  1"  returns  she,  softly,  yet  with  the 
gentle  dignity  that  always  belongs  to  her.  Her  lips  quiver, 
but  she  draws  herself  up  to  her  fullest  height,  and,  throwing 
up  her  head,  walks  with  a  gait  that  is  almost  stately  into  the 
presence  of  the  duchess. 

"  You  wish  me  to  sing  to  you,"  she  says,  gently,  yet  so  un- 
smilingly  that  the  duchess  wonders  what  has  come  to  the 
child.  "  "  It  will  give  me  pleasure  if  I  can  give  you  pleasure, 
but  my  voice  is  not  worth  thinking  about." 

"  Nevertheless,  let  me  hear  it,"  says  the  duchess.  "  I  can- 
not forget  that  your  face  is  musical." 

Mona,  sitting  down  to  the  piano,  plays  a  few  chords  in  a 
slow,  plaintive  fashion,  and  then  begins.  Pad  Rodney  has 
come  to  the  doorway,  and  is  standing  there  gazing  at  her, 
though  she  knows  it  not.  The  ball-room  is  far  distant,  so  far 
that  "the  sound  of  the  band  does  not  break  upon  the  silence  of 
the  room  in  which  they  are  assembled.  A  hush  falls  upon 
the  listeners  as  Mona's  fresh,  pathetic,  tender  voice  »-ises  into 
the  air. 

It  is  an  old  song  she  chooses,  and  simple  as  old,  and  sweet 
as  simple.  I  almost  forget  the  words  now,  but  I  know  it  runs 
in  this  wise : 

"  Oh,  hame,  hame — hame  fain  wad  I  be, 
Hame,  hame  to  my  ain  countrie," 

and  so  on. 

It  touches  the  hearts  of  all  who  hear  it  as  she  sings  it,  and 
brings  tears  to  the  eyes  of  the  duchess.  So  used  the  little 
fragile  daughter  to  sing  who  is  now  chanting  in  heaven ! 

There  is  no  vehement  applause  as  Mona  takes  her  fingers 
from  the  keys,  but  every  one  says,  "  Thank  you,"  in  a  low  tone. 
Geoffrey,  going  up  to  her,  leans  over  her  chair  and  jyhispers, 
with  some  agitation, — 

"■  You  did  not  mean  it,  Mona,  did  you  ?  You  are  content 
here  with  mo  ? — you  have  no  regret  ?" 

At  which  Mona  turns  round  to  him  a  face  very  pale,  but 


250  MRS.  OEOFFREV. 

full  of  such  love  as  should  rejoice  the  heart  of  any  man,  and 
says,  tremulously, — 

"  Darling,  do  you  need  an  answer  ?" 

"  Then  why  did  you  choose  that  song?" 

"  I  hardly  know." 

"  I  was  hateful  to  you  just  now,  and  most  unjust." 

"  Were  you  ?  I  have  forgotten  it,"  replies  she,  smiling 
happily,  the  color  coming  back  to  her  cheeks.  Whereupon 
Paul  liodney's  brows  contract,  and  with  a  muttered  curse  he 
turns  aside  and  leaves  the  room,  and'  then  the  house,  without 
another  word  or  backward  glance. 


CHAPTER    XXIX. 


flow   GEOFFREY    DINES   OUT,  AND    HOW   MONA    FARES  DUR- 
ING   HIS    ABSENCE. 

"  Must  you  really  go,  Geoffrey  ? — really  ?"  asks  Mona, 
miserably,  looking  the  very  personification  of  despair.  She 
has  asked  the  same  question  in  the  same  tone  ever  since  early 
dawn,  and  it  is  now  four  o'clock. 

"  Yes,  really.  Horrid  bore,  isn't  it  ? — but  county  dinners 
must  be  attended,  and  Nicholas  will  do  nothing.  Besides,  it 
isn't  fair  to  ask  him  just  now,  dear  old  fellow,  when  he  has  so 
much  upon  his  mind." 

"  But  you  have  something  on  your  mind,  too.  You  have 
me.     Why  doesn't  Jack  go  ?" 

"  Well,  I  rather  think  he  has  Violet  on  his  mind.  Did  you 
ever  see  anything  so  spooney  as  they  looked  all  through  din- 
ner yesterday  and  luncheon  to-day  ?  I  didn't  think  it  was  in 
Violet." 

"  Did  she  never  look  at  you  like  that?"  asks  Mona,  mali- 
ciously ;  "  in  the  early  days,  I  mean,  before — before " 

"  I  fell  a  victim  to  your  charms  ?  No.  Jack  has  it  all  to 
himself  as  far  as  I'm  concerned.  Well,  I  must  be  off,  you 
know.  It  is  a  tremendous  drive,  and  I'll  barely  do  it  in 
time.     I  shall  be  back  about  two  in  the  morning." 

"  Not  until  two?"  says  Mona,  growing  miserable  again. 


MRS.   GEOFFREY.  251 

"  I  can't  well  get  away  before  that,  you  know,  as  "Wi^ley  ia 
a  good  way  off."  But  I'll  try  all  I  know.  And,  after  all," 
says  Geoffrey,  with  a  view  to  cheering  her,  "  it  isn't  as  bad  as 
if  I  was  ordered  off  somewhere  for  a  week,  is  it  ?" 

"  A  week  !  I  should  be  dead  when  you  came  back,"  de- 
clares Mrs.  Geoffrey,  with  some  vehemence,  and  a  glance  that 
shows  she  can  dissolve  into  tears  at  a  moment's  notice. 

"  Some  fellows  go  away  for  months,"  says  Geoffrey,  still 
honestly  bent  on  cheering  her,  but  unfortunately  going  the 
wrong  way  to  work. 

"  Then  they  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  themselves,"  says 
Mona,  with  much  indignation.     "  Months  indeed  !" 

"  Why,  they  can't  help  it,"  explains  he.  "  They  are  sent 
half  the  time." 

"  Then  the  people  who  send  them  should  be  ashamed  I 
But  what  about  the  other  half  of  their  time  that  they  spend 
from  home?' 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know :  that  was  a  mere  figure  of  speech," 
pays  Mr.  Bodney,  who  is  afraid  to  say  such  absences  are  caused 
by  an  innate  love  of  freedom  and  a  vile  desire  for  liberty  at 
any  cost,  and  has  nothing  else  handy.  "  Now,  don't  stay 
moping  up  here  when  I  go,  but  run  down-stairs  and  find  the 
girls  and  make  yourself  happy  with  them." 

"  Happy  ?"  reproachfully.  "  I  sha'n't  know  a  happy  mo- 
ment until  I  see  you  again  !" 

"  Nor  I,  till  I  see  you,"  says  Geoffrey,  earnestly,  actually 
believing  what  he  says  himself. 

"  I  shall  do  nothing  but  look  at  the  clock  and  listen  for  the 
sound  of  the  horse's  feet." 

"  Mona,  you  mustn't  do  that.  Now,  I  shall  be  really  an- 
noyed if  you  insist  on  sitting  up  for  me  and  so  lose  a  good 
night's  rest.  Now,  don't,  darling.  It  will  only  take  it  out  of 
you,  and  make  you  pale  and  languid  nest  day." 

"  But  I  shall  be  more  content  so  ;  and  even  if  I  went  to 
bed  I  could  not  sleep.  Besides,  I  shall  not  be  companionless 
when  the  small  hours  begin  to  creep  upon  me." 

"  Eh  ?"  says  Geoffrey. 

"  No  ;  I  shall  have  him  with  me :  but,  hush  1  It  is  quite  a 
secret,"  placing  her  finger  on  her  lips. 

"  '  Him'  ? — whom  ?" — demands  her  husband,  with  pardon- 
able vivacity. 


252  MRS.  OEOFFRET. 

"  My  own  old  pet,"  says  Mrs.  Geoffrey,  stUl  mysteriously, 
and  with  the  fondest  smile  imaginable. 

"  Good  gracious,  Mona,  whom  do  you  mean  ?"  asks  he, 
aghast  both  at  her  look  and  tone. 

"  Why,  Spice,  of  course,"  opening  her  eyes.  "  Didn't  you 
know.     Why,  what  else  could  I  mean?" 

"  I  don't  know,  I'm  sure  ;  but  really  the  way  you  expressed 

yourself,  and Yes,  of  course.  Spice  will  be  company, 

the  very  best  company  for  you." 

"  I  think  I  shall  have  Allspice  too,"  goes  on  Mona.  "  But 
say  nothing.  Lady  Rodney,  if  she  knew  it,  would  not  allow 
it  for  a  moment.  But  Jenkins"  (the  old  butler)  "  has  prom- 
ised to  manage  it  all  for  me,  and  to  smuggle  my  dear  dogs  up 
to  my  room  without  any  one  being  in  the  least  the  wiser." 

"  If  you  have  Jenkins  on  your  side  you  are  pretty  safe," 
says  Geoffrey.  "  JMy  mother  is  more  afraid  of  Jenkins  than 
you  would  be  of  a  land-leaguer.  Well,  good-by  again.  I  must 
be  off." 

"  What  horse  are  you  taking  ?"  asks  she,  holding  him. 

"  Black  Bess." 

"  Oh,  Geoffrey,  do  you  want  to  break  my  heart.  Sure  you 
know  he  is  the  most  vicious  animal  in  the  whole  stables.  Take 
any  horse  but  that." 

"  Well,  if  only  to  oblige  you,  I'll  take  Truant." 

"  What  I  the  horrid  brute  that  puts  back  his  ears  and  shows 
the  white  of  his  eyes !  Geoffrey,  once  for  all,  I  desire  you 
to  have  nothing  to  do  with  him." 

"Anything  to  please  you,"  says  Geoffrey,  who  is  laughing 
by  this  time.  "  May  I  trust  my  precious  bones  to  Mazerin  ? 
He  is  quite  fifteen,  has  only  one  eye,  and  a  shameless  disre- 
gard for  the  whip." 

"  Ye — es ;  he  will  do,"  says  Mona,  after  a  second's  careful 
thought,  and  even  now  reluctantly. 

"  I  think  I  see  myself  behind  Mazerin,  at  this  time  of  day," 
says  Mr.  Rodney,  heartlessly.  "  You  don't  catch  me  at  it,  if 
I  know  it.  I'm  not  sure  what  horse  I  shall  have,  but  I  trust 
to  Thomas  to  give  me  a  good  one.  For  the  last  time,  good- 
by,  you  amiable  young  goose,  and  don't  expect  me  till  I  come." 

So  saying,  he  embraces  her  warmly,  and,  running  down- 
stairs, jumps  into  the  dog-cart,  and  drives  away  behind  the 
"  vicious  Black  Bess." 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  253 

Mona  watches  him  from  her  window,  as  far  as  the  curve  m 
the  avenue  will  permit,  and,  having  received  and  returned  his 
farewell  wave  of  the  hand,  sits  down,  and,  taking  out  her 
handkerchief,  indulges  in  a  good  cry. 

It  is  the  first  time  since  their  marriage  that  she  and  Geof- 
frey have  been  parted,  and  it  seems  to  her  a  hard  thing  that 
such  partings  should  be.  A  sense  of  desolation  creeps  over 
her, — a  sense  of  loneliness  she  has  never  known  before. 

Then  she  remembers  her  promise  to  go  down  to  the  girls 
and  abstain  from  fretting,  and,  rising  bravely,  she  bathes  her 
eyes,  and  goes  down  the  marble  staircase  through  the  cur- 
tained alcove  towards  the  small  drawing-room,  where,  one  of  the 
servants  tells  her,  the  family  is  assembled. 

The  door  of  the  room  she  is  approaching  is  wide  open,  and 
inside,  as  Mona  draws  nearer,  it  becomes  apparent  that  some 
one  is  talking  very  loudly,  and  with  much  emphasis,  and  as 
though  determined  not  to  be  silenced.  Argument  is  plainly 
the  order  of  the  hour. 

As  Mona  comes  still  nearer,  the  words  of  the  speaker  reach 
her,  and  sink  into  her  brain.  It  is  Lady  Rodney  who  is  hold- 
ing forth,  and  what  she  says  floats  lightly  to  Mona's  ears.  She 
is  still  advancing,  unmindful  of  anything  but  the  fact  that  she 
cannot  see  Geoffrey  again  for  more  hours  than  she  cares  to 
count,  when  the  following  words  become  clear  to  her,  and  drive 
the  color  from  her  cheeks : 

"  And  those  dogs  forever  at  her  heels ! — positively,  she  is 
half  a  savage.  The  whole  thing  is  in  keeping,  and  quite  de- 
testable. How  can  you  expect  me  to  welcome  a  girl  who  is 
without  family  and  absolutely  penniless?  Why,  I  am  con- 
vinced that  misguided  boy  bought  her  even  her  trousseau  1" 

Mona  has  no  time  to  hear  more ;  pale,  but  collected,  she 
walks  deliberately  into  the  room  and  up  to  Lady  Rodney. 

"  You  are  mistaken  in  one  point,"  she  says,  slowly.  "  I 
may  be  savage,  penniless,  without  family, — but  I  bought  my 
own  trousseau.  I  do  not  say  this  to  excuse  myself,  because  I 
Bhould  not  mind  taking  anything  from  Geoffrey ;  but  I  think 
it  a  pity  you  should  not  know  the  truth,  I  had  some  money 
of  my  own, — very  little,  I  allow,  but  enough  to  furnish  ma 
with  wedding  garments." 

Her  coming  is  a  thunderbolt,  her  speech  lightning.  Lady 
Rodney  changes  color,  and  is  for  once  utterly  disconcerted. 

22 


254  MRS.  GEOFFREY. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  manages  to  say.  "  Of  course  had 
I  known  you  were  listening  at  the  door  I  should  not  have  said 
what  I  did," — this  last  with  a  desire  to  offend. 

"  I  was  not  listening  at  the  door,"  says  Mona,  with  dignity, 
yet  with  extreme  difficulty  :  some  hand  seems  clutching  at  her 
heart-strings,  and  he  who  should  have  been  near  to  succor  her 
is  f\\r  away.  "  I  never,"  haughtily,  "  listened  at  a  door  in  all 
my  life,  /should  not  understand  how  to  do  it."  Her  Irish 
blood  is  up,  and  there  is  a  distinct  emphasis  upon  the  pronoun. 
**  You  have  wronged  me  twice  !" 

Her  voice  falters.  Instinctively  she  looks  round  for  help. 
She  feels  deserted, — alone.  No  one  speaks.  Sir  Nicholas  and 
Violet,  who  are  in  the  room,  are  as  yet  almost  too  shocked  to 
have  command  of  words ;  and  presently  the  silence  becomes 
unbearable. 

Two  tears  gather,  and  roll  slowly  down  IMona's  white  cheeks. 
And  then  somehow  her  thoughts  wander  back  to  the  old  farm- 
house at  the  side  of  the  hill,  with  the  spreading  trees  behind 
it,  and  to  the  sanded  floor  and  the  cool  dairy,  and  the  warmth 
of  the  love  that  abounded  there,  and  the  uncle,  who,  if  rough, 
was  at  least  ready  to  believe  her  latest  action — whatever  it 
might  be — only  one  degree  more  perfect  than  the  one  that  went 
before  it. 

She  turns  away  in  a  desolate  fashion,  and  moves  towards  the 
door ;  but  Sir  Nicholas,  having  recovered  from  his  stupefac- 
tion by  this  time,  follows  her,  and,  placing  his  arm  round  her, 
bends  over  her  tenderly,  and  presses  her  face  against  his 
shoulder. 

"  My  dearest  child,  do  not  take  things  so  dreadfully  to 
heart,"  he  says,  entreatingly  and  soothingly :  "  it  is  all  a  mis- 
take ;  and  my  mother  will,  I  know,  be  the  first  to  acknowl- 
edge herself  in  error." 

"  I  regret — "  begins  Lady  Rodney,  stonily ;  but  Mona  by  a 
gesture  stays  her. 

"No,  no,"  she  says,  drawing  herself  up  and  speaking  wih 
a  touch  of  pride  that  sits  very  sweetly  on  her ;  "  I  beg  you 
will  say  nothing.  Mere  words  could  not  cure  the  wound  you 
have  inflicted." 

She  lays  her  hand  upon  her  heart,  as  though  she  would  say, 
'  The  wound  lies  here,"  and  once  more  turns  to  the  door. 

Violet,  rising,  flings  from  her  the  work  she  has  been  amua- 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  255 

ing  herself  with,  and,  with  a  gesture  of  impatience  very  for- 
eign to  her  usual  reserve,  goes  up  to  Mona,  and,  slipping  her 
arm  round  her,  takes  her  quietly  out  of  the  room. 

Up  the  stairs  she  takes  her,  and  into  her  own  room,  with- 
out saying  a  word.  Then  she  carefully  turns  the  key  in  the 
door,  and,  placing  Mona  in  a  large  and  cosey  arm-chair,  stands 
opposite  to  her,  and  thus  begins : 

"  Now  listen,  Mona,"  she  says,  in  her  low  voice,  that  even 
uow,  when  she  is  somewhat  excited,  shows  no  trace  of  heat  or 
haste,  "  for  I  shall  speak  to  you  plainly.  You  must  make  up 
your  mind  to  Lady  Rodney.  It  is  the  common  belief  that 
mere  birth  will  refine  most  people ;  but  those  who  cling  to 
that  theory  will  surely  find  themselves  mistaken.  Something 
more  is  required :  I  mean  the  nobility  of  soul  that  Nature 
gives  to  the  peasant  as  well  as  the  peer.  This,  Lady  Rodney 
lacks ;  and  at  heart,  in  sentiment,  she  is — at  times — coarse. 
May  I  say  what  I  like  to  you  ?" 

"  You  may,"  says  Mona,  bracing  herself  for  the  ordeal. 

"  Well,  then,  I  would  ask  you  to  harden  your  heart,  because 
she  will  say  many  unpleasant  things  to  you,  and  will  be  un- 
civil to  you,  simply  because  she  has  taken  it  into  her  head 
that  you  have  done  her  an  injury  in  that  you  have  man-ied 
Geoffrey  !  But  do  you  take  no  notice  of  her  rudeness  ;  ignore 
her,  think  always  of  the  time  that  is  coming  when  your  own 
home  will  be  ready  for  you,  and  where  you  can  live  with 
Geoffrey  forever,  without  fear  of  a  harsh  word  or  an  unkind 
glance.     There  must  be  comfort  in  this  thought." 

She  glances  anxiously  at  Mona,  who  is  gazing  into  the  fire 
with  a  slight  frown  upon  her  brow,  that  looks  sadly  out  of 
place  on  that  smooth  white  surface.  At  Violet's  last  words 
it  flies  away,  not  to  return. 

"  Comfort?  I  think  of  nothing  else,"  she  says,  dreamily. 

"  On  no  account  quarrel  with  Lady  Rodney.  Bear  for  the 
next  few  weeks  (they  will  quickly  pass)  anything  she  may 
say,  rather  than  create  a  breach  between  mother  and  son. 
You  hear  me,  Mona  ?" 

"  Y?s,  I  hear  you.  But  must  you  say  this  ?  Have  I  ever 
sought  a  quarrel  with — Geoffrey's  mother  ?" 

"  No,  no,  indeed.  You  have  behaved  admirably  whera 
most  women  would  have  ignominiously  failed.  Let  that 
thought   console  you.     To  have  a  perfect  temper,  such  as 


256  MRS.  QEOFFREV. 

yours,  should  be  in  itself  a  source  of  satisfaction.  And  now 
bathe  your  eyes,  and  make  yourself  look  even  prettier  than 
usual.     A  difficult  matter,  isn't  it?"  with  a  friendly  smile, 

Mona  smiles  too  in  return,  though  still  heavy  at  heart. 

"Have  you  any  rose-water ?"  goes  on  Miss  Mansergh  in 
her  matter-of-fact  manner.  "  No  ?  A  good  sign  that  tears 
and  you  are  enemies.  Well,  I  have,  and  so  I  shall  send  it  to 
you  in  a  moment.     You  will  use  it  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  thank  you,"  says  Mona,  who  is  both  surprised 
and  carried  away  by  the  other's  unexpected  eloquence. 

"And  now  a  last  word,  Mona.  When  you  come  down  to 
dinner  to-night  (and  take  care  you  are  a  little  late),  be  gay, 
merry,  wild  with  spirits,  anything  but  depressed,  whatever  it 
may  cost  you.  And  if  in  the  drawing-room,  later  on,  Lady 
Rodney  should  chance  to  drop  her  handkerchief,  or  that  eter- 
nal knitting,  do  not  stoop  to  pick  it  up.  If  her  spectacles  are 
on  a  distant  table,  forget  to  see  them.  A  nature  such  as  hers 
could  not  understand  a  nature  such  a.s  yours.  The  more  anx- 
ious you  may  seem  to  please  the  more  determined  she  will  bo 
not  to  be  pleased." 

"But  you  like  Lady  Rodney?"  says  Mona,  in  a  puzzled 
tone. 

"  Very  much  indeed.  But  her  faults  are  obvious,  and  I 
like  you  too.  I  have  said  more  to  you  of  her  than  I  have 
ever  yet  said  to  human  being ;  why,  I  know  not,  because  you 
are  (comparatively  speaking)  a  stranger  to  me,  whilst  she  is 
my  very  good  friend.  Yet  so  it  rests.  You  will,  I  know, 
keep  faith  with  me." 

"  I  am  glad  you  know  that,"  says  Mona.  Then,  going 
nearer  to  Violet,  she  lays  her  hand  upon  her  arm  and  regards 
her  earnestly.     The  tears  are  still  glistening  in  her  eyes. 

"  I  don't  think  I  should  mind  it  if  I  did  not  feel  so  much 
alone.  If  I  had  a  place  in  your  hearts,"  she  says.  "  You  all 
like  me,  I  know,  but  I  want  to  be  loved."  Then,  tremulously, 
"  Will  you  try  to  love  me  ?" 

Violet  looks  at  her  criticizingly,  then  she  smiles,  and,  plac- 
ing her  hand  beneath  Mrs.  Geoffrey's  chin,  turns  her  faco 
more  to  the  fading  light. 

"  Yes,  that  i^  just  your  greatest  misfortune,"  she  says,  med- 
itatively. "  Love  at  any  price.  You  would  die  out  of  the 
Bunshine,  or  spoil,  which  would  be  worse.     You  will  never  be 


MRS.  GEO F FEE  y.  267 

quite  happy,  I  think ;  and  yet  perhaps,"  with  a  faint  sigh, 
"  you  get  your  own  good  out  of  your  life,  after  all, — happiness 
more  intense,  if  briefer,  than  we  more  material  people  can 
know.  There,  shall  I  tell  you  something  ?  I  think  you  have 
gained  more  love  in  a  short  time  than  any  other  person  I  ever 
knew.  You  have  conquered  me,  at  least ;  and,  to  tell  you  the 
truth,"  with  a  slight  grimace,  "  I  was  quite  determined  not  t^ 
like  you.  Now  lie  down,  and  in  a  minute  or  two  I  shall  send 
Halkett  to  you  with  the  rose-water." 

For  the  first  time  she  stoops  forward  and  presses  her  lips  to 
Mona's  warmly,  graciously.  Then  she  leaves  her,  and,  having 
told  her  maid  to  take  the  rose-water  to  Mrs.  Rodney,  goes 
down-stairs  again  to  the  drawing-room. 

Sir  Nicholas  is  there,  silent,  but  angry,  as  Violet  knows  by 
the  frown  upon  his  brow.  With  his  mother  he  never  quar- 
rels, merely  expressing  disapproval  by  such  signs  as  an  unwil- 
lingness to  speak,  and  a  stern  grave  line  that  grows  upon  his 
lips. 

"  Of  course  you  are  all  against  me,"  Lady  Rodney  is  say- 
ing, in  a  rather  hysterical  tone.  "  Even  you,  Violet,  have 
taken  up  that  giri's  cause  1"  She  says  this  expectantly,  as 
though  calling  on  her  ally  for  support.  But  for  once  the  ally 
fails  her.  Miss  Mansergh  maintains  an  unflinching  silence, 
and  seats  herself  in  her  low  wicker  chair  before  the  fire  with 
all  the  air  of  one  who  has  made  up  her  mind  to  the  course 
she  intends  to  pursue,  and  is  not  be  enticed  from  it. 

"  Oh,  yes,  no  doubt  I  am  in  the  wrong,  because  I  cannot 
bring  myself  to  adore  a  vulgar  girl  who  all  day  long  shocks 
me  with  her  Irishisms,"  goes  on  Lady  Rodney,  almost  in  tears, 
born  of  vexation.  "  A  girl  who  says,  '  Sure  you  know  I 
didn't,'  or  '  Ah  !  did  ye,  now,'  or  '  Indeed  I  won't,  then  !'  every 
other  minute.  It  is  too  much.  What  you  all  see  in  her  I 
can't  imagine.  And  you  too,  Violet,  you  condemn  me,  I  can 
see." 

"  Yes,  I  think  you  are  quite  and  altogether  in  the  wrong," 
nays  Miss  Mansergh,  in  her  cool  manner,  and  without  any 
show  of  hesitation,  selecting  carefully  from  the  basket  near 
her  the  exact  shade  of  peacock  blue  she  will  require  for  th« 
cornflower  she  is  working. 

Lady  Rodney,  rising  hurriedly,  sails  with  ofi"eudod  dignity 
from  the  room. 

r  22* 


258  MRS.  GEOFFREY. 


CHAPTER    XXX. 

HOW  MONA,  GHOST-LIKE,  FLITS  THROUGH  THE  OLD  TOWERU 
AT  MIDNIGHT — HOW  THE  MOON  LIGHTS  HER  WAY — AND 
HOW  SHE  MEETS  ANOTHER  GHOST  MORE  FORMIDABLE 
THAN  HERSELF. 

Jenkins,  the  antediluvian  butler,  proves  himself  a  man  of 
his  word.  There  are,  evidently,  ''  no  two  ways"  about  Jen- 
kins. "  Seeking  the  seclusion  that  her  chamber  grants"  about 
ten  o'clock  to-night,  after  a  somewhat  breezy  evening  with 
her  mother-in-law,  Mona  descries  upon  her  hearth-rug,  dozing 
blissfully,  two  huge  hounds,  that  raise  their  sleepy  tails  and 
heads  to  welcome  her,  with  the  utmost  condescension,  as  she 
enters  her  room. 

Spice  and  Allspice  are  having  a  real  good  time  opposite  her 
bedroom  fire,  and,  though  perhaps  inwardly  astonished  at  their 
promotion  from  a  distant  kennel  to  the  sleeping-apartment  of 
their  fair  mistress,  are  far  too  well  bred  to  betray  any  vulgar 
exaltation  at  the  fact. 

Indeed,  it  is  probably  a  fear  lest  she  shall  deem  them 
unduly  elated  that  causes  them  to  hesitate  before  running 
to  greet  her  with  their  usual  demonstrative  joy.  Then  po- 
liteness gets  the  better  of  pride,  and,  rising  with  a  mighty 
eflPort,  they  stretch  themselves,  yawn,  and,  going  up  to  her, 
thrust  their  soft  muzzles  into  her  hands  and  look  up  at  her 
with  their  great,  liquid,  loving  eyes.  They  rub  themselves 
against  her  skirts,  and  wag  their  tails,  and  give  all  other  signs 
of  loyalty  and  devotion. 

Mona,  stooping,  caresses  them  fondly.  They  are  a  part  of 
her  old  life,  and  dear,  therefore,  to  her  own  faithful  heart. 
Having  partly  undressed,  she  sits  down  upon  the  hearth  rug 
with  them,  and,  with  both  their  big  heads  upon  her  lap,  sit« 
staring  into  the  fire,  trying  to  while  away  with  thought  the 
hours  that  must  elapse  before  Geoffrey  can  return  to  her  again. 

It  is  dreary  waiting.  No  sleep  comes  to  her  eyes ;  she 
barely  moves ;  the  dogs  slumber  drowsily,  and  moan  and  star* 
in  their  sleep,  "  fighting  their  battles  o'er  again,"  it  may  be, 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  259 

or  anticipating  future  warfare.  Slowly,  ominously,  the  clock 
strikes  twelve.  Two  hours  have  slipped  into  eternity ;  mid- 
night is  at  hand  1 

At  the  sound  of  the  twelfth  stroke  the  hounds  stir  uneasily, 
and  sigh,  and,  opening  wide  their  huge  jaws,  yawn  again. 
IMona  pats  them  reassuringly,  and,  flinging  some  fresh  logs 
upon  the  fire,  goes  back  once  more  to  her  old  position,  with 
her  chin  in  the  palm  of  one  hand,  whilst  the  other  rests  on 
the  sleek  head  of  Spice. 

Castles  within  the  fire  grow  grand  and  tall,  and  then  crum- 
ble into  dust ;  castles  in  Mona's  brain  fare  hkewise.  The 
shadows  dance  upon  the  walls  ;  silently,  imperceptibly,  the 
minutes  flit  away. 

One  o'clock  chimes  the  tiny  timepiece  on  the  mantel-shelf, 
outside  the  sound  is  repeated  somewhere  in  the  distance  in 
graver,  deeper  tones. 

Mona  shivers.  Getting  up  from  her  lowly  position,  she 
draws  back  the  curtains  of  her  window  and  looks  out  upon 
the  night.  It  is  brilliant  with  moonlight,  clear  as  day,  full 
of  that  hallowed  softness,  that  peaceful  serenity,  that  belongs 
alone  to  night. 

She  is  enchanted,  and  stands  there  for  a  minute  or  two 
spell-bound  by  the  glory  of  the  scene  before  her.  Then  a 
desire  to  see  her  beloved  lake  from  the  great  windows  in  the 
northern  gallery  takes  possession  of  her.  She  will  go  and 
look  at  it,  and  afterwards  creep  on  tiptoe  to  the  library,  seize 
the  book  she  had  been  reading  before  dinner,  and  make  her 
way  back  again  to  her  room  without  any  one  being  in  the 
least  the  wiser.  Anything  will  be  better  than  sitting  here 
any  longer,  dreaming  dismal  day-dreams. 

She  beckons  to  the  dogs,  and  they,  coming  up  to  her,  fol- 
low her  out  of  the  room  and  along  the  corridor  outside,  their 
soft  velvet  paws  making  no  sound  upon  the  polished  floor. 
She  has  brought  with  her  no  lamp.  Just  now,  indeed,  it  would 
be  useless,  such  "  a  wide  and  tender  light"  does  heaven's 
lamp  fling  upon  floor  and  ceiling,  chamber  and  comdor. 

The  whole  of  the  long  north  gallery  is  flooded  with  its 
splendor.  The  oriel  window  at  its  farther  end  is  lighted  up, 
and  from  it  can  be  seen  a  picture,  living,  real,  that  resembles 
fairy-land. 

vSinkiug  into  the  cushioned  embrasure  of  the  window,  Mona 


260  MRS.  GEOFFREY. 

sits  entranced,  drinking  in  the  beauty  that  is  balm  to  her  im- 
aginative mind.  The  two  dogs,  with  a  heavy  sigh,  shake 
themselves,  and  then  drop  with  a  soft  thud  upon  the  ground 
at  her  feet, — her  pretty  arched  feet  that  are  half  naked  and 
white  as  snow,  their  blue  slippers  being  all  too  loose  for  them. 
Below  is  the  lake,  bathed  in  moonshine,  A  gentle  wind 
has  arisen,  and  little  wavelets  silver-tinged  are  rolling  inward, 
breaking  themselves  with  tender  sobs  upon  the  shore. 

"  The  floor  of  heaven 
Is  thick  inlaid  with  patines  of  bright  gold." 

TIjc  floor  itself  is  pale,  nay,  almost  blue.  A  little  snow  is 
sifted  lightly  on  branch,  and  grass,  and  ivied  wall.  Each 
object  in  the  sleeping  world  is  quite  distinct. 

"  All  things  are  calm,  and  fair,  and  passive;  earth 
Looks  as  if  lulled  upon  an  angel's  lap 
Into  a  breathless,  dewy  sleep  ;   so  still 
That  we  can  only  say  of  things,  they  be." 

The  cold  seems  hardly  to  touch  Mona,  so  wrapt  she  is  in 
the  beauties  of  the  night.  There  is  at  times  a  solemn  inde- 
finable pleasure  in  the  thought  that  we  are  awake  whilst  all 
the  world  sleepeth  ;  that  we  alone  are  thinking,  feeling,  holding 
high  communion  with  our  own  hearts  and  our  God. 

The  breeze  is  so  light  that  hardly  a  trembling  of  the  leafless 
branches  breaks  the  deadly  silence  that  reigns  all  round : 

"  A  lono  owl's  hoot, 
The  waterfall's  faint  drip. 
Alone  disturb  the  stillness  of  the  scene." 

Tired  at  length,  and  feeling  somewhat  chilled,  Mona  rouses 
herself  from  her  revery,  and,  followed  by  her  two  faithful 
guardians,  moves  towards  the  staircase.  Passing  the  armored 
men  that  stand  in  niches  all  along  the  walls,  a  little  sensation 
of  fear,  a  certain  belief  in  the  uncanny,  runs  through  her. 
She  looks  in  a  terrified  fashion  over  her  left  shoulder,  and 
shudders  perceptibly.  Do  dark  fiery  eyes  look  upon  her  in 
very  truth  from  those  ghastly  visors  ? — surely  a  clank  of  super- 
natural armor  smote  upon  her  ear  just  then  I 

She  hastens  her  steps,  and  runs  down  hurriedly  into  the 


MRS.  OEOFFREV.  261 

hall  below,  which  is  almost  as  light  as  day.  Turning  aside, 
she  makes  for  the  library,  and  now  (and  not  till  now)  remem- 
bers she  has  no  light,  and  that  the  library,  having  its  shutter:> 
carefully  closed  every  night  by  the  invaluable  Jenkins  himself, 
is  of  necessity  in  perfect  darkness. 

Must  she  go  back  for  a  caudle?  Must  she  pass  again  all 
those  belted  knights  upon  the  staircase  and  in  the  upper  gal- 
lery ?  No  I  rather  will  she  brave  the  darkness  of  the  more 
congenial  library,  and — but  soft — what  is  that  ?  Surely  a 
tiny  gleam  of  light  is  creeping  to  her  feet  from  beneath  the 
door  of  the  room  towards  which  she  wends  her  way. 

It  is  a  light,  not  of  stars  or  of  moonbeams,  but  of  a  bond 
fide  lamp,  and  as  such  is  hailed  by  Mona  with  joy.  Evi- 
dently the  thoughtful  Jenkins  has  left  it  lighted  there  for 
Geoffrey's  benefit  when  he  returns.  And  very  thoughtful,  too, 
it  is  of  him. 

All  the  servants  have  received  orders  to  go  to  bed,  and  on 
no  account  to  sit  up  for  Mr.  Rodney,  as  he  can  let  himself  in 
in  his  own  way, — a  habit  of  his  for  many  years.  Doubtless, 
then,  one  of  them  had  placed  this  lamp  in  the  library  with 
some  refreshments  for  him,  should  he  require  them. 

So  thinks  Mona,  and  goes  steadily  on  to  the  library,  dread- 
ing nothing,  and  inexpressibly  cheered  by  the  thought  that 
gloom  at  least  does  not  await  her  there. 

Pushing  open  the  door  very  geutly,  she  enters  the  room, 
the  two  dogs  at  her  heels. 

At  first  the  light  of  the  lamp — so  unlike  the  pale  trans- 
parent purity  of  the  moonbeams — puzzles  her  sight ;  she  ad- 
vances a  few  steps  unconsciously,  treading  lightly,  as  she  has 
done  all  along,  lest  she  shall  wake  some  member  of  the  house- 
hold, and  then,  piissing  her  hand  over  her  eyes,  looks  leisurely 
up.  The  fire  is  nearly  out.  She  turns  her  head  to  the  right, 
ftnd  then — then — she  utters  a  faint  scream,  and  grasps  the 
back  of  a  chair  to  steady  herself. 

Standing  with  his  back  to  her  (being  unaware  of  her  en 
trance),  looking  at  the  wall  with  the  smaller  panels  that  had 
80  attracted  him  the  night  of  the  dance,  is  Paul  Rodney  I 

Starting  convulsively  at  the  sound  of  her  cry,  he  turns,  and, 
drawing  with  lightning  rapidity  a  tiny  pistol  from  his  pocket, 
raises  his  arm,  and  deliberately  covers  her. 


262  MRS.  OEOFFREY. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

HOW  MOXA  STANDS  HER  GROUND — HOW  PAUL  RODNEY 
BECOMES  HER  PRISONER — AND  HOW  GEOFFREY  ON  HIS 
RETURN    HOME    MEETS    WITH    A    WARM    RECEPTION. 

For  a  second  Mona's  courage  fails  her,  and  then  it  returns 
again  with  threefold  force.  In  truth,  she  is  nearer  death  at 
this  moment  than  she  herself  quite  knows. 

"  Put  down  your  pistol,  sir,"  she  says,  hastily.  "  Would 
you  fire  on  a  woman  ?"  Her  tone,  though  hurried,  is  not 
oppressed  with  fear.  She  even  advances  a  few  steps  in  his 
direction.  Her  words,  her  whole  manner,  fill  him  with  admi- 
ration. The  extreme  courage  she  betrays  is,  indeed,  worthy 
of  any  man's  laudation,  but  the  implied  trust  in  his  chivalry 
touches  Paul  Rodney  more  than  anything  has  ever  had  power 
to  touch  him  before. 

He  lowers  the  weapon  at  her  command,  but  says  nothing. 
Indeed,  what  is  ther*;  to  say  ? 

"  Place  it  on  the  table,"  says  Mona,  who,  though  rich  in 
presence  of  mind,  ha.»  yet  all  a  woman's  wholesome  horror  of 
anything  that  may  go  ofi^. 

Again  he  obeys  hei. 

"  Now,  perhaps,  yov  will  explain  why  you  are  here  ?"  says 
Mrs.  Geofi"rey,  speakin<?  as  sternly  as  her  soft  voice  will  per- 
mit.    "  How  did  you  get  in  ?" 

"  Through  the  window.  I  was  passing,  and  found  it  open." 
There  is  some  note  ip  his  voice  that  might  well  be  termed 
mocking 

"  Open  at  this  hour  of  the  morning?" 

"  Wide  open." 

"  And  the  lamp,  did  tou  find  it  burning  ?" 

«  Brilliantly." 

He  lifts  his  head  her^-  and  laughs  aloud,  a  short  unmirth- 
ful  laugh. 

"  You  are  lying,  sir,'  says  Mona,  contemptuously. 

"  Yes,  deliberately,''  returns  he,  with  wilful  recklessness. 

He  moves  as  thougl  to  take  up  the  pistol  again ;  but  Mona 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  263 

is  beforehand  with  him,  and,  closing  her  fingers  round  it,  holds 
it  firmly. 

"  Do  you  think  you  are  stronger  than  I  am  ?"  he  says, 
amusement  blended  with  the  old  admiration  in  his  eyes. 

"  No,  but  they  are,"  she  says,  pointing  to  her  two  faithful 
companions,  who  are  staring  hungrily  at  llodney  and  evidently 
only  waiting  the  word  from  Mona  to  fling  themselves  upon 
him. 

She  beckons  to  them,  and,  rising  slowly,  they  advance  to- 
wards Rodney,  who  involuntarily  moves  back  a  little.  And 
in  tnith  they  are  formidable  foes,  with  their  bloodshot  eyes, 
and  bristling  coats,  and  huge  jaws  that,  being  now  parted, 
Bhow  the  gleaming  teeth  within. 

"  On  guard,"  says  Mona,  whereupon  both  the  brutes  crouch 
upon  the  ground  right  before  Rodney,  and  fix  him  seriously 
and  menacingly  with  their  eyes. 

"  You  are  certainly  too  strong  for  me,"  says  Rodney,  with 
a  frown  and  a  peculiar  smile. 

"  As  you  have  refused  to  explain  your  presence  here  to  me, 
you  shall  remain  where  you  now  are  until  help  arrives,"  says 
Mona,  with  evident  determination. 

"  I  am  content  to  stay  here  until  the  day  dawns,  if  you 
keep  me  company,"  replies  he,  easily. 

"  Insolence,  sir,  is  perhaps  another  part  of  your  role^^^  re- 
turns she,  with  cold  but  excessive  anger. 

She  is  clad  in  a  long  white  drossing-gown,  loose,  yet  cling- 
ing, that  betrays  each  curve  of  her  svelte.,  lissom  figure.  It  is 
bordered  with  swan's-down,  and  some  rich  white  lace,  that  sits 
high  to  her  neck  and  falls  over  her  small  hands.  Her  hair  is 
drawn  back  into  a  loose  knot,  that  looks  as  if  it  would  tumble 
down  her  back  should  she  shake  her  head.  She  is  pale,  and 
her  eyes  are  peculiarly  large  and  dark  from  excitement.  They 
are  fixed  upon  Rodney  with  a  gaze  that  belies  all  idea  of  fear, 
and  her  lips  are  compressed  and  somewhat  dangerous. 

"Is  truth  insolence?"  asks  Rodney.  "If  so,  I  demand 
your  pardon.  My  speech,  no  doubt,  was  a  betise,  yet  it  came 
from  my  heart." 

"  Do  not  trouble  yourself  to  make  any  further  excuse,"  says 
Mona,  icily. 

"  Pray  sit  down,"  says  Rodney,  politely :  "  if  you  insist  on 
spending  your  evening  with  me,  let  me  at  least  know  that  you 


264  MRS.  GEOFFREY. 

are  comfortable."  Again  the  comicality  of  the  whole  proceed- 
ing strikes  him,  and  he  laughs  aloud.  He  takes,  too,  a  step 
forward,  as  if  to  get  her  a  chair. 

"  Do  not  stir,"  says  Moua,  hastily,  pointing  to  the  blood- 
hounds. Allspice  has  risen — so  has  the  hair  on  his  back — 
and  ia  looking  thuuder-claps  at  Paul.  A  low  growl  breaka 
trom  him.  He  is  plainly  bent  upon  reducing  to  reason  who- 
soever shall  dispute  the  will  of  his  beloved  mistress.  "  The 
dogs  know  their  orders,  and  will  obey  me.  Down,  Allspice, 
down.  You  will  do  well,  sir,  to  remain  exactly  where  you 
are,"  continues  Mona. 

"  Then  get  a  chair  for  yourself,  at  least,  as  you  will  not 
permit  me  to  go  to  your  aid,"  he  entreats.  "  I  am  your 
prisoner, — perhaps,"  in  a  low  tone,  "  the  most  willing  captive 
that  ever  yet  was  made." 

He  hardly  realizes  the  extent  of  his  subjection, — is  blind  to 
the  extreme  awkwardness  of  the  situation.  Of  Geoffrey's 
absence,  and  the  chance  that  he  may  return  at  any  moment, 
he  is  altogether  ignorant. 

Mona  takes  no  notice  of  his  words,  but  still  stands  by  the 
table,  with  her  hands  folded,  her  long  white  robes  clinging  to 
her,  her  eyes  lowered,  her  whole  demeanor  like  that  of  some 
mediaeval  saint.  So  thinks  Rodney,  who  is  gazing  at  her  aa 
though  he  would  forever  imprint  upon  his  brain  the  remem- 
brance of  a  vision  as  pure  as  it  is  perfect. 

The  moments  come  and  go.  The  fire  is  dying  out.  No 
sound  but  that  of  the  falling  cinders  comes  to  disturb  the  still- 
ness that  reigns  within  the  library.  Mona  is  vaguely  wonder- 
ing what  the  end  of  it  all  will  be.  And  then  at  last  the 
silence  is  broken.  A  noise  upon  the  gravel  outside,  a  quick 
rush  up  the  balcony  steps ;  some  one  emerges  from  the  gloom 
of  the  night,  and  comes  into  the  room  through  the  open 
window,  Mona  utters  a  passionate  cry  of  relief  and  joy.  It 
is  Geoffrey  1 

Perhaps,  just  at  first,  surprise  is  too  great  to  permit  of  his 
feeling  either  astonishment  or  indignation.  He  looks  from 
Paul  Rodney  to  Mona,  and  then  from  Mona  back  to  Rodney. 
After  that  his  gaze  does  not  wander  again.  Mona,  running 
to  him,  throws  herself  into  his  arms,  and  there  he  holds  her 
closely,  but  always  with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  man  he  deems 
his  enemy. 


MRS.  OEOFFREV.  2G5 

As  for  the  Australian,  he  has  grown  pale  indeed,  but  is 
quite  self-possessed,  and  the  usual  insolent  line  round  his 
mouth  has  deepened.  The  dogs  have  by  no  means  relaxed 
their  vigil,  but  still  crouch  before  him,  ready  for  their  deadly 
spring  at  any  moment.  It  is  a  picture,  almost  a  lifeless  one, 
so  motionless  are  all  those  that  help  to  form  it.  The  fading 
lire,  the  brilliant  lamp,  the  open  window  with  the  sullen  night 
beyond,  Paul  Rodney  standing  upon  the  hearth-rug  with 
folded  arms,  his  dark  insolent  face  lighted  up  with  the  excite- 
ment of  what  is  yet  to  come,  gazing  defiantly  at  his  cousin, 
who  is  staring  back  at  him,  pale  but  determined.  And  then 
Mona,  in  her  soft  white  gown,  somewhat  in  the  foreground, 
with  one  arm  (from  which  the  loose  sleeve  of  the  dressing- 
gown  has  fallen  back,  leaving  the  fair  rounded  flesh  to  be 
Been)  thrown  around  her  husband's  neck,  is  watching  Rodney 
with  an  expression  on  her  face  that  is  half  haughtiness,  half 
nervous  dread.  Her  hair  has  loosened,  and  is  rippling  over 
her  shoulders,  and  down  far  below  her  waist ;  with  her  dis- 
engaged hand  she  is  holding  it  back  from  her  ear,  hardly 
knowing  how  picturesque  and  striking  is  her  attitude,  and 
how  it  betrays  each  perfect  curve  of  her  lovely  figure. 

"  Now,  sir,  speak,"  she  says,  at  length,  in  rather  tremulous 
tones,  growing  fearful  of  the  lengthened  silence.  There  is  a 
dangerous  vibration  in  the  arm  that  Geoffrey  has  round  her, 
that  gives  her  warning  to  make  some  change  in  the  scene  as 
soon  as  possible. 

For  an  instant  Rodney  turns  his  eyes  on  her,  and  then  goes 
back  to  his  sneering  examination  of  Geoffrey.  Between  them 
the  two  dogs  still  lie,  quiet  but  eager. 

"  Call  off  the  dogs,"  says  Geoffrey  to  Mona,  in  a  low  tone; 
"  there  is  no  longer  any  necessity  for  them.  And  tell  me  how 
you  come  to  be  here,  at  this  hour,  with  this — fellow." 

Mona  calls  off  the  dogs.  They  rise  unwillingly,  and,  walk- 
ing into  a  distant  corner,  sit  there,  as  though  still  awaiting  a 
chance  of  taking  some  active  part  in  the  coming  fray.  After 
which  Mona,  in  a  few  words,  explains  the  situation  to  Geoffrey. 

"  You  will  give  me  an  explanation  at  once,"  says  Geoffrey, 
slowly,  addressing  his  cousin.     "  What  brought  you  here  ?" 

"  Curiosity,  as  I  have  already  told  Mrs.  Rodney,"  returns 
he,  lightly.     "  The  window  was  open,  the  lamp  burning.     I 
walked  in  to  sec  the  old  room." 
U  23 


266  MRS.  GEOFFREY. 

"  Wlio  13  your  accomplice  ?"  asks  Geoffrey,  still  with  studied 
calmness. 

"  You  are  pleased  to  talk  conundrums,"  says  Rodney,  with 
a  shrug.  "  I  confess  myself  sufficiently  dull  to  have  never 
guessed  one. ' 

"  I  shall  make  myself  plainer.  "Wliat  servant  did  you 
bribe  to  leave  the  window  open  for  you  at  this  hour  ?" 

For  a  brief  instant  the  Australian's  eyes  flash  fire ;  then  he 
lowers  his  lids,  and  laughs  quite  easily. 

"  You  would  turn  a  farce  into  a  tragedy,"  he  says,  mock- 
ingly. "  Why  should  I  bribe  a  servant  to  let  me  see  an  old 
room  by  midnight?" 

"  Why,  indeed,  unless  you  wished  to  possess  yourself  of 
something  in  the  old  room  ?" 

\  "  Again  I  fail  to  understand,"  says  Paul ;  but  his  very  lips 
grow  livid.  "  Perhaps  for  the  second  time,  and  with  the 
same  delicacy  you  used  at  first,  you  will  condescend  to 
explain." 

"  Is  it  necessary  ?"  says  Geoffrey,  very  insolently  in  his  turn. 
"  I  think  not.  By  the  by,  is  it  your  usual  practice  to  prowl 
round  people's  houses  at  two  o'clock  in  the  morning?  I 
thought  all  such  festive  habits  were  confined  to  burglars,  and 
blackguards  of  that  order." 

"  We  are  none  of  us  infallible,"  says  Rodney,  in  a  curious 
tone,  and  speaking  as  if  with  difficulty.  "  You  see,  even  you 
erred.  Though  I  am  neither  burglar  nor  blackguard,  I,  too, 
enjoy  a  walk  at  midnight." 

"  Liar  !"  says  Geoffrey  between  his  teeth,  his  eyes  fixed  with 
deadly  hatred  upon  his  cousin.  "  Liar — and  thief  I"  He 
goes  a  few  steps  nearer  to  him,  and  then  waits. 

"  Thief!"  echoes  Paul,  in  a  terrible  tone.  His  whole  face 
quivers.     A  murderous  light  creeps  into  his  eyes. 

Mona,  seeing  it,  moves  away  from  Geoffrey,  and,  going 
Btealthily  up  to  the  table,  lays  her  hand  upon  the  pistol,  that 
is  still  lying  where  last  she  left  it.  With  a  quick  gesture,  and 
unseen,  she  covers  it  with  a  paper,  and  then  turns  her  atten- 
tion once  more  upon  the  two  men. 

"Ay,  thief!"  repeats  Geoffrey,  in  a  voice  low  but  fierce. 
"  It  was  not  without  a  purpose  you  entered  this  house  to-night, 
alone,  and  uninvited.  Tell  your  story  to  any  one  foolish 
enough  to  believe  you.     I  do  not.     What  did  you  hope  to 


MRS.   GEOFFREY.  267 

find?  What  help  towards  the  gaining  of  your  unlawful 
cause  ?" 

"  Thief!"  interrupts  Rodney,  repeating  the  vile  word  again, 
as  though  deaf  to  everything  but  this  degrading  accusation. 
Then  there  is  a  faint  pause,  and  then 

Mona  never  afterwards  could  say  which  man  was  the  first 
tc  make  the  attack,  but  in  a  second  they  are  locked  in  each 
other's  arms  in  a  deadly  embrace.  A  desire  to  cry  aloud,  to 
summon  help,  takes  hold  of  her,  but  she  beats  it  down,  some 
inward  feeling,  clear,  yet  undefined,  telling  her  that  publicity 
on  such  a  matter  as  this  will  be  eminently  undesirable. 

Geoffrey  is  the  taller  man  of  the  two,  but  Paul  the  more 
lithe  and  sinewy.  For  a  moment  they  sway  to  and  fro  ;  then 
Geoffrey,  getting  his  fingers  upon  his  cousin's  throat,  forces 
him  backward. 

The  Australian  struggles  for  a  moment.  Then,  finding 
Geoffrey  too  many  for  him,  he  looses  one  of  his  hands,  and, 
thrusting  it  between  his  shirt  and  waistcoat,  brings  to  light  a 
tiny  dagger,  very  flat,  and  lightly  sheathed. 

Fortunately,  this  dagger  refuses  to  be  shaken  from  its  hold. 
Mona,  feeling  that  fair  play  is  at  an  end,  and  that  treachery  is 
asserting  itself,  turns  instinctively  to  her  faithful  allies  the 
bloodhounds,  who  have  risen,  and,  with  their  hair  standing 
straight  on  their  backs,  are  growling  ominously. 

Cold,  and  half  wild  with  horror,  she  yet  retains  her  pres- 
ence of  mind,  and,  beckoning  to  one  of  the  dogs,  says,  im- 
periously, "  At  him,  Spice !"  pointing  to  Paul  Rodney. 

Like  a  flash  of  lightning,  the  brute  springs  forward,  and, 
flinging  himself  upon  Rodney,  fastens  his  teeth  upon  the  arm 
of  the  hand  that  holds  the  dagger. 

The  extreme  pain,  and  the  pressure — tlie  actual  weight — 
of  the  powerful  animal,  tell.  Rodney  falls  back,  and  with  an 
oath  staggers  against  the  mantel-piece. 

"  Call  off  that  dog,"  cries  Geoff"rey,  turning  savagely  to 
Mona.  Whereupon,  having  gained  her  purpose,  Mona  bids 
the  dog  lie  down,  and  the  faithful  brute,  exquisitely  trained, 
and  unequal  to  disobedience,  drops  off  his  foe  at  her  command, 
and  falls  crouching  to  the  ground,  yet  with  his  eyes  red  and 
bloodshot,  and  his  breath  coming  in  panting  gasps  that  betray 
the  wrath  he  would  gladly  gratify. 

The  dagger  has  fallen  to  the  carpet  in  the  struggle,  and 


268  MRS.  GEOFFREY . 

Mona,  picking  it  up,  flings  it  far  from  her  into  the  darksome 
night  through  the  window.  Then  she  goes  up  to  Geoffrey, 
and,  laying  her  hand  upon  his  breast,  turns  to  confront  their 
cousin. 

Her  hair  is  falling  like  a  veil  all  round  her ;  through  it  she 
looks  out  at  Rodney  with  eyes  frightened  and  imploring. 

"  Go,  Paul  I"  she  says,  with  vehement  entreaty,  the  word 
passing  her  lips  involuntarily. 

Geoffrey  does  not  hear  her.  Paul  does.  And  as  his  own 
name,  coming  from  her  lips,  falls  upon  his  ear,  a  great  change 
passes  over  his  face.  It  is  ashy  pale  ;  his  lips  are  bloodless; 
his  eyes  are  full  of  rage  and  undying  hatred  ;  but  at  her  voice 
it  softens,  and  something  that  is  quite  indescribable,  but  is 
perhaps  pain  and  grief  and  tenderness  and  despair  combined, 
comes  into  it.  Her  lips — the  purest  and  sweetest  under 
heaven — have  deigned  to  address  him  as  one  not  altogether 
outside  the  pale  of  friendship, — of  common  fellowship.  In 
her  own  divine  charity  and  tenderness  she  can  see  good  in 
others  who  are  not  (as  he  acknowledges  to  himself  with  ter- 
rible remorse)  worthy  to  touch  the  very  hem  of  her  white 
skirts. 

"  Go,"  she  says,  again,  entreatingly,  still  with  her  hand  on 
Geoffrey's  breast,  as  though  to  keep  him  back,  but  with  her 
eyes  on  Paul. 

It  is  a  command.  With  a  last  lingering  glance  at  the 
woman  who  has  enthralled  him,  he  steps  out  through  the 
window  on  to  the  balcony,  and  in  another  moment  is  lost  to 
sight. 

Mona,  with  a  beating  heart,  but  with  a  courage  that  gives 
calmness  to  her  outward  actions,  closes  the  window,  draws  the 
shutters  together,  bars  them,  and  then  goes  back  to  Geoffrey, 
who  has  not  moved  since  Rodney's  departure. 

"  Tell  me  again  how  it  all  happened,"  he  says,  laying  hia 
bands  on  her  shoulders.  And  then  she  goes  through  it  again, 
slowly,  carefully. 

"  He  was  standing  just  there,"  she  says,  pointing  to  the 
spot  where  first  she  had  seen  Paul  when  she  entered  the 
library,  "  with  his  face  turned  to  the  panels,  and  his  hand  up 
like  this,"  suiting  the  action  to  the  word.  "  When  I  came  in, 
he  turned  abruptly.  Can  ho  be  eccentric  ? — odd  ?  Sometimes 
1  have  thought  that " 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  269 

"  No  ;  eccentricity  is  farther  from  him  than  villainy.  But, 
my  darling,  what  a  terrible  ordeal  for  you  to  come  in  and  find 
him  here  I  Enough  to  frighten  you  to  death,  if  you  were 
any  one  but  my  own  brave  girl." 

"  The  dogs  gave  me  courage.  And  was  it  not  well  I  did 
bring  them  ?  How  strange  that  I  should  have  wished  for 
them  so  strongly  to-night  1  That  time  when  he  drew  out  the 
dagger ! — my  heart  failed  me  then,  and  but  for  Spice  what 
would  have  been  the  end  of  it  ?"  She  shudders.  "  And 
yet,"  she  says,  with  sudden  passion,  "  even  then  I  knew  what 
I  should  have  done.  I  had  his  pistol.  I  myself  would  have 
shot  him,  if  the  worst  came  to  the  worst.  Oh,  to  think  that 
that  man  may  yet  reign  here  in  this  dear  old  house,  and  sup- 
plant Nicholas !" 

Her  eyes  fill  with  tears. 

"  He  may  not, — there  is  a  faint  chance, — but  of  course  the 
title  is  gone,  as  he  has  proved  his  birth  beyond  dispute." 

"  What  could  he  have  wanted  ?  When  I  came  in,  he 
turned  pale  and  levelled  the  pistol  at  me.  I  was  frightened, 
but  not  much.  When  I  desired  him,  he  laid  down  the  pistol 
directly,  and  then  I  seized  it.     And  then " 

Her  eyes  fall  upon  the  hearth-rug.  Half  under  the  fender 
a  small  piece  of  crumpled  paper  attracts  her  notice.  Still 
talking,  she  stoops  mechanically  and  picks  it  up,  smooths  it, 
and  opens  it. 

"Why,  what  is  this?"  she  says,  a  moment  later;  "and 
what  a  curious  hand !     Not  a  gentleman's  surely." 

"  One  of  Thomas's  billef-doux,  no  doubt,"  says  Geoffrey, 
dreamily,  alluding  to  the  under-footman,  but  thinking  of 
something  else. 

"  No,  no ;  I  think  not.  Come  here,  Geofirey ;  do.  It  is 
the  queerest  thing, — like  a  riddle.     See  !" 

He  comes  to  her  and  looks  over  her  shoulder  at  the  paper 
she  holds.  In  an  ugly  unformed  hand  the  following  figures 
and  words  are  written  upon  it : 

"  7 — i.     Press  top  corner, — right  hand." 

This  is  all.  The  paper  is  old,  soiled,  and  has  apparently 
made  large  acquaintance  with  pockets.  It  looks,  indeed,  as 
if  much  travel  and  tobacco  are  not  foreign  to  it.  Geoffrey, 
taking  it  from  Mona,  holds  it  from  him  at  full  length,  with 
amiable  superciliousness,  bctwoon  his  first  fiuijer  and  thumb. 

2iJ* 


270  MRS.  GEOFFREY. 

"  Thomas  has  plainly  taken  to  hieroglyphics, — if  it  be 
Thomas,"  he  says.  "  I  can  fancy  his  pressing  his  young 
woman's  right  hand,  but  her  '  top  corner'  baifles  me.  If  I 
were  Thomas,  I  should't  hanker  after  a  girl  with  a  '  top  cor- 
ner ;'  but  there  is  no  accounting  for  tastes.  It  really  ia 
curious,  though,  isn't  it  ?"  As  he  speaks  he  looks  at  Mona  j 
but  Mona,  though  seemingly  returning  his  gaze,  is  for  tho 
first  time  in  her  life  absolutely  unmindful  of  his  presence. 

Slowly  she  turns  her  head  away  from  him,  and,  as  though  fol- 
lowing out  a  train  of  thought,  fixes  her  eyes  upon  the  panelled 
wall  in  front  of  her. 

"  It  is  illiterate  writing,  certainly  ;  and  the  whole  concern 
dilapidated  to  the  last  degree,"  goes  on  Mr.  llodney,  still  re- 
garding the  soiled  paper  with  curiosity  mingled  with  aversion 
"  Any  objection  to  my  putting  it  in  the  fire  ?" 

"  '  7 — 4,'  "  murmurs  she,  absently,  still  staring  intently  at 
the  wall. 

"  It  looks  like  the  production  of  a  lunatic, — a  very  dangerous 
lunatic, — an  habitue  of  Colney  Hatch,"  muses  Geofi"rey,  who 
is  growing  more  and  more  puzzled  with  the  paper's  contents 
the  oftcner  he  reads  it. 

"  '  Top  corner, — right  hand,'  "  goes  on  Mona,  taking  no 
heed  of  him,  and  speaking  in  the  same  low,  mysterious,  far- 
ofi"  tone. 

"Yes,  exactly;  you  have  it  by  heart;  but  what  does  it 
mean,  and  what  are  you  staring  at  that  wall  for?"  asks  he, 
hopelessly,  going  to  her  side. 

"  It  means — the  missing  will,"  returns  she,  in  a  voice  that 
would  have  done  credit  to  a  priestess  of  Delphi.  As  she  de- 
livers this  oracular  sentence,  she  points  almost  tragically  to- 
wards the  wall  in  question. 

"  Eh  !"  says  Geoffrey,  starting,  not  so  much  at  the  meanmg 
yf  her  words  as  at  the  words  themselves.  Have  the  worry 
and  excitement  of  the  last  hour  unsettled  her  brain  I 

"  My  dear  child,  don't  talk  like  that,"  he  says,  nervously: 
"you're  done  up,  you  know.     Come  to  bed." 

"  I  sha'n't  go  to  bed  at  all,"  declares  Mrs.  Geoffrey,  ex- 
citedly. "  I  shall  never  go  to  bed  again,  I  think,  until  all 
this  is  cleared  up.     Geoffrey,  bring  me  over  that  chair." 

She  motions  impatiently  with  her  hand,  and  Geoffrey,  being 
compelled  to  it  by  her  vehemence,  draws  a  high  chair  close  to 


MRS.   QEOFFREV.  271 

that  part  of  the  wall  that  seems  to  have  claimed  her  greatest 
attention. 

Springing  up  on  it,  she  selects  a  certain  panel,  and,  laying 
one  hand  on  it  as  if  to  make  sure  it  is  the  one  she  wants, 
counts  carefully  six  more  from  it  to  the  next  wall,  and  three 
trom  it  to  the  floor.  I  think  I  have  described  these  panels 
before  as  being  one  foot  broad  and  two  feet  long. 

Having  assured  herself  that  the  panel  selected  is  the  one  she 
requires,  she  presses  her  fingers  steadily  against  the  upper 
corner  on  the  side  farthest  from  the  fire.  Expectation  lies  in 
every  line  of  her  face,  yet  she  is  doomed  to  disappointment. 
No  result  attends  her  nervous  pressure,  but  distinct  defeat. 
The  panel  is  inexorable.  Nothing  daunted,  she  moves  her 
hand  lower  down,  and  tries  again.  Again  failure  crushes  her  ; 
after  which  she  makes  one  last  attempt,  and,  touching  the  very 
uppermost  corner,  presses  hard. 

Success  at  last  rests  with  her.  Slowly  the  panel  moves, 
and,  sliding  to  one  side,  displays  to  view  a  tiny  cupboard  that 
for  many  years  has  been  lost  sight  of  by  the  Rodney  I'amily. 
It  is  very  small,  about  half  a  foot  in  depth,  with  three  small 
shelves  inside.     But,  alas  !  these  shelves  are  empty. 

Geofi"rey  utters  an  exclamation,  and  Mona,  after  one  swift 
comprehensive  glance  at  the  rifled  cupboard,  bursts  into  tears. 
The  bitter  disappointment  is  more  than  she  can  bear. 

"  Oh  !  it  isn't  here  I  He  has  stolen  it !"  cries  she,  as  one 
who  can  admit  of  no  comfort.  "  And  I  felt  so  sure  I  should 
find  it  myself.  That  was  what  he  was  doing  when  I  came 
into  the  room.  Ah,  Geoffrey,  sure  you  didn't  malign  him 
■when  you  called  him  a  thief." 

"  What  has  he  done?"  asks  Geofi'rey,  somewhat  bewildered 
and  greatly  distressed  at  her  apparent  grief 

"  He  has  stolen  the  will.  Taken  it  away.  That  paper  you 
hold  must  have  fiiUen  from  him,  and  contains  the  directions 
about  finding  the  right  panel.  Ah  !  what  shall  we  do  now  ?" 
"  You  are  right:  I  see  it  now,"  says  Geofi'rey,  whitening  a 
little.  "  Worden  wrote  this  paper,  no  doubt,"  glancing  at  the 
dirty  bit  of  writing  that  has  led  to  the  discovery.  "  He  evi- 
dently had  his  knowledge  from  old  Elspeth,  who  must  have 
known  of  this  secret  hiding-place  from  my  great-grandfather. 
My  father,  I  am  convinced,  knew  nothing  of  it.  Here,  on 
the  ni^ht  of  my  grandfather's  death,  the  old  woman  must 


272  MRS.  OEOFFREY. 

have  hidden  the  will,  and  here  it  has  remained  ever  since  until 
to-night.  Yet,  after  all,  this  is  mere  supposition,"  says  Geof- 
fi'ey.  "  We  are  taking  for  granted  what  may  prove  a  myth, 
The  will  may  never  have  been  placed  here,  and  he  him- 
self  " 

"  It  was  placed  here ;  I  feel  it,  I  know  it,"  says  Mona,  sol- 
emnly, laying  her  hand  upon  the  panel.  Her  earnestnesa  im- 
presses him.     He  wakes  into  life. 

"  Then  that  villain,  that  scoundrel,  has  it  now  in  his  pos- 
session," he  says,  quickly.  "  If  I  go  after  him,  even  yet  I  may 
come  up  with  him  before  he  reaches  his  home,  and  compel  him 
to  give  it  up." 

As  he  finishes  he  moves  towards  the  window,  as  though 
bent  upon  putting  his  words  into  execution  at  once,  but  Mona, 
hastily  stepping  before  him,  gets  between  it  and  him,  and, 
raising  her  hand,  forbids  his  approach. 

"  You  may  compel  him  to  murder  you,"  she  says,  feverishly, 
"  or,  in  your  present  mood,  you  may  murder  him.  No,  you 
shall  not  stir  from  this  to-night." 

"  But — "  begins  he,  impatiently,  trying  gently  to  put  her 
to  one  side. 

"  I  will  not  listen,"  she  interrupts,  passionately.  "  I  know 
how  you  both  looked  a  while  ago.  I  shall  never  forget  it ; 
and  to  meet  again  now,  with  fresh  cause  for  hatred  in  your 

hearts,  would  be No.     There  is  crime  in  the  very  air 

to-night." 

She  winds  her  arms  around  him,  seeing  he  is  still  deter- 
mined to  go,  and,  throwing  back  her  head,  looks  into  his 
face. 

"  Besides,  you  are  going  on  a  fool's  errand,"  she  says,  speak- 
ing rapidly,  as  though  to  gain  time.  "  He  has  reached  his  own 
place  long  ago.  Walt  until  the  morning,  I  entreat  you,  Geof- 
frey. I — "  her  lips  tremble,  her  breath  comes  fitfully — "  I  cau 
bear  no  more  just  now." 

A  sob  escapes  her,  and  falls  heavily  on  Geoffrey's  heart. 
He  is  not  proof  against  a  woman's  tears, — as  no  true  man  ever 
is, — especially  her  tears,  and  so  he  gives  in  at  once. 

"  There,  don't  cry,  and  you  shall  have  it  all  your  own  way," 
he  says,  with  a  sigh.  "  To-morrow  we  will  decide  what  is  to 
be  done." 

"  To-day,  you  moan  :  you  will  only  have  to  wait  a  few  short 


MRS.  QEOFFRET.  273 

hours,"  she  says,  gratefully.  "  Let  us  leave  this  hateful 
room,"  with  a  shudder.  "  I  shall  never  be  able  to  enter  it 
again  without  thinking  of  this  night  and  all  its  horrors." 


CHAPTER  XXXn. 

HOW    MONA   KEEPS    HER   OWN    COUNSEL — AND    HOW   AT 
MID-DAY    SHE   RECEIVES   A    NOTE. 

Sleep,  even  when  she  does  get  to  bed,  refuses  to  settle  upon 
Mona's  eyelids.  During  the  rest  of  the  long  hours  that  mark 
the  darkness  she  lies  wide  awake,  staring  upon  vacancy,  and 
thinking  ceaselessly  until 

"Morn,  in  the  white  wake  of  the  mornil?  star, 
Comes  furrowing  all  the  Orient  into  gold." 

Then  she  rises  upon  her  elbow,  and  notices  how  the  light 
comes  through  the  chinks  of  the  shutters.  It  must  be  day 
indeed.  The  dreary  night  has  fled  affrighted  ;  the  stars  hide 
their  diminished  rays.     Surely 

"  Yon  gray  lines 
That  fret  the  clouds  are  messengers  of  day." 

There  is  relief  in  the  thought.  She  springs  from  her  bed, 
clothes  herself  rapidly,  and  descends  to  the  breakfast-room. 
Yet  the  day  thus  begun  appears  to  her  singularly  unattractive. 
Her  mind  is  full  of  care.  She  has  persuaded  Geoffrey  to 
keep  silence  about  all  that  last  night  produced,  and  wait,  be- 
fore taking  further  steps.  But  wait  for  what  ?  She  herself 
hardly  knows  what  it  is  she  hopes  for. 

She  makes  various  attempts  at  thinking  it  out.  She  places 
her  pretty  hands  upon  her  prettier  brows,  under  the  mistaken 
impression  common  to  most  people  that  this  attitude  is  condu- 
cive to  the  solution  of  mysteries;  but  with  no  result.  Things 
will  not  arrange  themselves. 

To  demand  the  will  from  Paul  Rodney  without  further 
proof  that  it  Ls  in  his  possession  than  the  fact  of  having  dis- 
covered by  chance  a  secret  cupboard  is  absurd ;  yet  not  to  de- 


274  MRS.  GEOFFREY. 

mand  it  seems  madness.  To  see  him,  to  reason  with  him,  to 
accuse  him  of  it,  is  her  one  desire ;  yet  she  can  promise  hpx- 
self  no  good  from  such  an  interview.  She  sighs  as  she  thus 
seeks  aimlessly  to  see  a  satisfactory  termination  to  all  her  med- 
itations. 

She  is  distraite  and  silent  all  the  morning,  taking  small  no- 
tice of  what  goes  on  around  her.  Geoffrey,  perplexed  too  in 
spirit,  wanders  vaguely  from  pillar  to  post,  unable  to  settle  to 
anything, — bound  by  Mona  to  betray  no  hint  of  what  hap- 
pened in  the  library  some  hours  ago,  yet  dying  to  reveal  the 
secret  of  the  panel-cupboard  to  somebody. 

Nolly  is  especially  and  oppressively  cheerful.  He  is  blind 
to  the  depression  that  marks  Mona  and  GeofiTrey  for  its  own, 
and  quite  outdoes  himself  in  geniality  and  all-round  amiability. 

Violet  has  gone  to  the  stables  to  bestow  upon  her  bonny 
brown  mare  her  usual  morning  offering  of  bread ;  Jack,  of 
course,  has  gone  with  her. 

Geoffrey  is  nowhere  just  at  this  moment.  Doatie  and 
Nicholas  are  sitting  hand  in  hand  and  side  by  side  in  the 
library,  discussing  their  own  cruel  case,  and  wondering  for  the 
thousandth  time  whether — if  the  worst  comes  to  the  worst 
(of  which,  alas !  there  now  seems  little  doubt) — her  father 
will  still  give  his  consent  to  their  marriage,  and,  if  so,  how 
they  shall  manage  to  live  on  five  hundred  pounds  a  year,  and 
whether  it  may  not  be  possible  for  Nicholas  to  get  something 
or  other  to  do  (on  this  subject  they  are  vague)  that  may  help 
"  to  make  the  crown  a  pound." 

Mona  is  sitting  in  the  morning-room,  the  faithful  and  ever- 
lively  Nolly  at  her  side.  According  to  his  lights,  she  is 
*'  worth  a  ship-load  of  the  whole  lot,"  and  as  such  he  haunts 
her.  But  to-day  she  fails  him.  She  is  absent,  depressed, 
weighed  down  with  thought, — anything  but  congenial.  She 
forgets  to  smile  in  the  right  place,  says  "  Yes"  when  courtesy 
requires  "  No,"  and  is  deaf  to  his  gayest  sallies. 

When  he  has  told  her  a  really  good  story, — quite  true,  and 
all  about  the  -Esthetic,  Lady  Lilias,  who  has  declared  her  in- 
tention of  calling  this  afternoon,  and  against  whose  wearing 
society  he  is  strenuously  warning  her, — and  when  she  has 
shown  no  appreciation  of  the  wit  contained  therein,  he  knows 
there  is  something — as  he  himself  describes  it — "  rotten  in 
the  state  of  Denmark." 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  2Y5 

"  You  are  not  well,  are  you,  Mrs.  Geoffrey  ?"  be  says,  sym- 
pathetically,  getting  up  from  his  own  chair  to  lean  tenderly 
over  the  back  of  hers.  Nolly  is  nothing  if  not  affectionate, 
where  women  are  concerned.  It  gives  him  no  thought  or 
trouble  to  be  attentive  to  them,  as  in  his  soul  he  loves  them 
all, — in  the  abstract, — from  the  dairy-maid  to  the  duchess, 
always  provided  they  are  pretty. 

"  You  are  wrong :  I  am  quite  well,"  says  Mona,  smiling, 
and  rousing  herself. 

"  Then  you  have  something  on  your  mind.  You  have  not 
been  your  usual  perfect  self  all  the  morning." 

"  I  slept  badly  last  night ;  I  hardly  slept  at  all,"  she  says, 
plaintively,  evading  direct  reply. 

"  Oh,  well,  that's  it,"  says  Mr.  Darling,  somewhat  relieved. 
"  I'm  an  awful  duffer  not  to  have  guessed  that  Geoffrey's  being 
out  would  keep  you  awake." 

"  Yes,  I  could  not  sleep.  Watching  and  waiting  destroy 
all  chance  of  slumber." 

"  Lucky  he,"  says  Nolly,  fervently,  "  to  know  there  is  some- 
body who  longs  for  his  return  when  he  is  abroad ;  to  feel  that 
there  are  eyes  that  will  mark  his  coming,  and  look  brighter 
when  he  comes,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  Nobody  ever  cares 
about  my  coming,"  says  Mr.  Darling,  with  deep  regret,  "  ex- 
cept to  lament  it." 

"  How  melancholy !"  says  Mona,  with  a  nearer  approach  to 
brightness  than  she  has  shown  all  day. 

"  Yes.  I'm  not  much,"  confesses  Mr.  Darling,  blandly. 
"  Others  are  more  fortunate.  I'm  like  '  the  man  in  the  street,' 
subject  to  all  the  winds  of  heaven.  Why,  it  would  almost 
tempt  a  man  to  stay  away  from  home  occasionally  to  know 
there  was  some  one  longing  for  his  return.  It  would  posi- 
tively encourage  him  to  dine  out  whenever  he  got  the  chance." 

"  I  pity  your  wife,"  says  Mona,  almost  severely. 

"  Oh,  now,  Mrs.  Geoffrey,  come — I  say — how  cruel  you 
can  be !" 

"  Well,  do  not  preach  such  doctrine  to  Geoffrey,"  she  says, 
with  repentance  mixed  with  pathos. 

"  I  shall  do  only  what  you  wish,"  returns  he,  chivalrously, 
arranging  the  cushion  that  adorns  the  back  of  her  chair. 

The  morning  wanes,  and  luncheon  declares  itself  When 
it  has  come  to  an  end,  Mona  going  slowly  up  the  stairs  to  her 


276  ^RS.  GEOFFREY. 

own  room  is  met  there  by  one  of  the  maids, — not  her  own, — 
who  hands  her  a  sealed  note. 

"  From  whom  ?"  demands  Mona,  lazily,  seeing  the  writing 
is  unknown  to  her. 

"  I  really  don't  know,  ma'am.  Mitchell  gave  it  to  me," 
Bays  the  girl,  in  an  injured  tone.  Now,  Mitchell  is  Lady 
Rodney's  maid. 

"  Very  good,"  says  Mona,  indifferently,  after  which  the 
woman,  having  straightened  a  cushion  or  two,  takes  her 
departure. 

Mona,  sinking  languidly  into  a  chair,  turns  the  note  over 
and  over  between  her  fingers,  whilst  wondering  in  a  dis- 
jointed fashiun  as  to  whom  it  can  be  from.  She  guesses 
vaguely  at  the  writer  of  it,  as  people  will  when  they  know  a 
touch  of  the  hand  and  a  single  glance  can  solve  the  mystery. 

Then  she  opens  the  letter,  and  reads  as  follows ; 

"  In  spite  of  all  that  has  passed,  I  do  entreat  you  to  meet 
me  at  three  o'clock  this  afternoon  at  the  river,  beneath  the 
chestnut-tree.  Do  not  refuse.  Let  no  shrinking  from  the 
society  of  such  as  I  am  deter  you  from  granting  me  this  first 
and  last  interview,  as  what  I  have  to  say  concerns  not  you, 
but  those  you  love.  I  feel  the  more  sure  you  will  accede  to 
this  request  because  of  the  heavenly  pity  in  your  eyes  last 
night,  and  the  grace  that  moved  you  to  address  me  as  you 
did.  I  shall  wait  for  you  until  four  o'clock.  But  let  me  not 
wait  in  vain. — P.  R." 

So  runs  the  letter. 

"  The  man  is  eccentric,  no  matter  what  Geoffrey  may  say," 
is  Mona's  first  thought,  when  she  has  perused  it  carefully  for 
the  second  time.  Then  the  belief  that  it  may  have  something 
to  do  with  the  restoration  of  the  lost  will  takes  possession  of 
her,  and  makes  her  heart  beat  wildly.  Yas,  she  will  go ;  she 
will  keep  this  appointment  whatever  comes  of  it. 

She  glances  at  her  watch.  It  is  now  a  quarter-past  three ; 
80  there  is  no  time  to  be  lost.     She  must  hasten. 

Hurriedly  she  gets  into  her  furs,  and,  twisting  some  soft 
black  lace  around  her  throat,  runs  down  the  stairs,  and,  open- 
ing the  hall  door  without  seeing  any  one,  makes  her  way  to- 
wards the  appointed  spot. 

It  is  the  20th  of  February ;  already  winter  is  dying  out  of 
mind,  and  little  flowers  are  springing  everywhere. 


MRS.  OEOFFREV.  277 

"  Daisies  pied,  and  violets  blue, 

And  lady-smocks  all  silver-white. 
And  cuekoo-buds  of  yellow  hue 

Do  paint  the  meadows  with  delight." 

Each  bank  and  root  of  mossy  tree  is  studded  with  pale  prim- 
roses that  gleam  like  stars  when  the  morninc;  rises  to  dim  their 
lustre.  My  lady's  straw-bed  spreads  its  white  carpet  here  and 
there ;  the  faint  twitter  of  birds  is  in  the  air,  with  "  liquid 
lapse  of  murmuring  streams ;"  every  leaf  seems  bursting  into 
life,  the  air  is  keen  but  soft,  the  clouds  rest  lightly  on  a 
ground  of  spotless  blue  ;  the  world  is  awake,  and  mad  with 
youthful  glee  as 

"Spring  comes  slowly  up  this  way." 

Every  flower  has  opened  wide  its  pretty  eye,  because  the  sun, 
that  so  long  has  been  a  stranger,  has  returned  to  them,  and 
is  gazing  down  upon  them  with  ardent  love.  They — fond 
nuislings  of  an  hour — accept  his  tardy  attentions,  and,  though 
Btill  chilled  and  disoU  because  of  the  sad  touches  of  winter 
that  still  remain,  gaze  with  rapt  admiration  at  the  great 
Phoebus,  as  he  sits  enthroned  above. 

Mona,  in  spite  of  her  haste,  stoops  to  pluck  a  bunch  of 
violets  and  place  them  in  her  breast,  as  she  goes  upon  her  way. 
Up  to  this  the  beauty  of  the  early  spring  day  has  drawn  her 
out  of  herself,  and  compelled  her  to  forget  her  errand.  But 
as  she  comes  near  to  the  place  appointed  for  the  interview, 
a  strange  repugnance  to  go  forward  and  face  Paul  Rodney 
makes  her  step  slower  and  her  eyes  heavy.  And  even  as  she 
comprehends  how  strongly  she  shrinks  from  the  meeting  with 
him,  she  looks  up  and  sees  the  chestnut-tree  in  front  of  her, 
and  the  stream  rushing  merrily  to  the  ocean,  and  Paul  Ptodney 
standing  in  his  favorite  attitude  with  his  arms  folded  and  hia 
sombre  eyes  fixed  eagerly  upon  her. 

*  I  have  come,"  she  says,  simply,  feeling  herself  growing 
pale,  yet  quite  self-possossed,  and  strong  in  a  determinatioa 
not  to  offer  him  her  hand. 

"  Yes.  I  thank  you  for  your  goodness,"  returns  he, 
slowly. 

Then  follows  an  uncomfortable  silence. 

"  You  have  something  important  to  say  to  me,"  says  Mona, 

f)rcsently,  seeing  he  will  not  speak  :  "  at  least,  so  your  letter 
ed  me  to  believe." 

24 


278  MRS.  GEOFFREY. 

"  It  is  true  ;  I  have."  Then  some  other  train  of  thought 
Becms  to  rush  upon  him  ;  and  he  goes  on  in  a  curious  tone 
that  is  lialf  mocking,  yet  wretched  above  every  other  feeling : 
"  You  had  the  best  of  me  last  night,  had  you  not  ?  And  yet," 
with  a  sardonic  laugh,  "  I'm  not  so  sure,  either.     See  here." 

Slowly  he  draws  from  his  pocket  a  paper,  folded  neatly, 
that  looks  like  some  old  parchment.  Mona  draws  her  breath 
quickly,  and  turns  first  crimson  with  emotion,  then  pale  as 
death.  Opening  it  at  a  certain  page,  he  points  out  to  her  the 
Bignature  of  George  Rodney,  the  old  baronet. 

"  Give  it  to  me  1"  cries  she,  impulsively,  her  voice  tremb- 
ling. "  It  is  the  missing  will.  You  found  it  last  night.  It 
belongs  to  Nicholas.  You  must — nay,"  softly,  beseechingly, 
"  you  will  give  it  to  me." 

"  Do  you  know  all  you  ask?  By  relinquishing  this  iniqui- 
tous deed  I  give  up  all  hope  of  ever  gaining  this  place, — this 
old  house  that  even  to  me  seems  priceless.  You  demand 
much.     Yet  on  one  condition  it  shall  be  yours." 

"  And  the  condition  ?"  asks  she,  eagerly,  going  closer  to 
him.  What  is  it  she  would  not  do  to  restore  happiness  to 
those  she  has  learned  to  love  so  well  ? 

"  A  simple  one." 

"  Name  it !"  exclaims  she,  seeing  he  still  hesitates. 

He  lays  his  hands  lightly  on  her  arm,  yet  his  touch  seems 
to  burn  through  her  gown  into  her  very  flesh.  He  stoops 
towards  her. 

"  For  one  kiss  this  deed  shall  be  yours,"  he  whispers,  "  to 
do  what  you  like  with  it." 

Mona  starts  violently,  and  draws  back ;  shame  and  indig- 
nation cover  her.     Her  breath  comes  in  little  gasps. 

"  Are  you  a  man,  to  make  me  such  a  speech  ?"  she  says, 
passionately,  fixing  her  eyes  upon  him  with  withering  con- 
tempt. 

"  You  have  heard  me,"  retorts  he,  coldly,  angered  to  the 
last  degree  by  the  extreme  horror  and  disgust  she  has  evinced 
at  his  proposal.  He  deliberately  replaces  the  precious  paper 
in  his  pocket,  and  turns  as  if  to  go. 

"  Oh,  stay  !"  she  says,  faintly,  detaining  him  both  by  word 
and  gesture. 

He  turns  to  her  again. 

She  covers  her  eyes  with  her  hands,  and  tries  vainly  to  de« 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  279 

cide  on  what  is  best  for  her  to  do.  In  all  the  books  she  has 
ever  read  the  young  woman  placed  in  her  position  would  not 
have  hesitated  at  all.  As  if  reared  to  the  situation,  she  would 
have  thrown  up  her  head,  and,  breathing  defiance  upon  the 
tempter,  would  have  murmured  to  the  sympathetic  air,  "  Honor 
above  everything,"  and  so,  full  of  dignity,  would  have  moved 
away  from  her  discomfited  companion,  her  nose  high  in  the 
air.  She  would  think  it  a  righteous  thing  that  all  the  world 
should  suflfer  rather  than  one  tarnish,  however  slight,  should 
sully  the  brightness  of  her  fame. 

For  the  first  time  Mona  learns  she  is  not  like  this  well-reg- 
ulated young  woman.  She  falls  lamentably  short  of  such  ex- 
cellence. She  cannot  bring  hereelf  to  think  the  world  of  those 
she  loves  well  lost  for  any  consideration  whatever.  And  after 
all — this  horrid  condition — it  would  be  over  in  a  moment. 
And  she  could  run  home  with  the  coveted  paper,  and  bathe 
her  face  in  sweet  cold  water.  And  then  again  she  shudders. 
Could  she  bathe  the  remembrance  of  the  insult  from  her 
heart  ? 

She  presses  her  hands  still  closer  against  her  eyes,  as  though 
to  shut  out  from  her  own  mind  the  hatefulness  of  such  a 
thought.  And  then,  with  a  fresh  effort,  she  brings  herself 
back  once  more  to  the  question  that  lies  before  her. 

Oh,  if  by  this  one  act  of  self-sacrifice  she  could  restore  the 
Towers  with  all  its  beauty  and  richness  to  Nicholas,  and — and 
his  mother, — how  good  a  thing  it  would  be  !  But  will  Geof- 
frey ever  forgive  her  ?  Ah,  sure  when  she  explains  the  matter 
to  him,  and  tells  him  how  and  why  she  did  it,  and  how  her 
heart  bled  in  the  doing  of  it,  he  will  put  his  arms  round  her 
and  pardon  her  sin  Nay,  more,  he  may  see  how  tender  is  the 
longing  that  compels  her  to  the  deed. 

She  uncovers  her  eyes,  and  glances  for  a  bare  instant  at 
Rodney.  Then  once  more  the  heavily-fringed  lids  close  upon 
the  dark-blue  eyes,  as  if  to  hide  the  anguish  in  them,  and  in 
a  smothered  voice  she  says,  with  clenched  teeth  and  a  face  like 
marble,  "  Yes,  you  may  kiss  me, — if  you  will." 

There  is  a  pause.  In  shrinking  doubt  she  awaits  the  mo- 
ment that  shall  make  him  take  advantage  of  her  words.  But 
that  moment  never  conies.  In  vain  she  waits.  At  length 
she  lifts  her  eyes,  and  he,  flinging  the  parchment  at  her  feet, 
cries,  roughly, — 


280  MRS.  OEOFFREY. 

"  There  I  take  it.    /  can  be  generous  too." 

"  But,"  begins  ]\Iona,  feebly,  hardly  sure  of  her  blessed 
release. 

"  Keep  your  kiss,"  exclaims  he,  savagely,  "  since  it  cost  yeu 
such  an  effort  to  give  it,  and  keep  the  parchment  too.  It  is 
yours  because  of  my  love  for  you." 

Ashamed  of  his  vehemence,  he  stoops,  and,  raising  the  will 
from  the  ground,  presents  it  to  her  courteously.  "  Take  it : 
it  is  yours,"  he  says.  Mona  closes  her  fingers  on  it  vigorously, 
and  by  a  last  effort  of  grace  suppresses  the  sigh  of  relief  that 
rises  from  her  heart. 

Instinctively  she  lowers  her  hand  as  though  to  place  the 
document  in  the  inside  pocket  of  her  coat,  and  in  doing  so 
comes  against  something  that  plainly  startles  her. 

"  I  quite  forgot  it,"  she  says,  coloring  with  sudden  fear,  and 
then  slowly,  cautiously,  she  draws  up  to  view  the  hated  pistol 
he  had  left  in  the  library  the  night  before.  She  holds  it  out 
to  him  at  arm's  length,  jis  though  it  is  some  noisome  reptile, 
as  doubtless  indeed  she  considers  it.  "  Take  it,"  she  says ; 
"  take  it  quickly.  I  brought  it  to  you  meaning  to  return  it. 
Good  gracious  !  fancy  my  forgetting  it  1  Why,  it  might  have 
gone  off  and  killed  me,  and  I  should  have  been  none  the 
wiser." 

"  Well,  I  think  you  would,  for  a  moment  or  two  at  least," 
returns  he,  smiling  grimly,  and  dropping  the  dangerous  little 
toy  with  some  carelessness  into  his  own  pocket 

"  Oh,  do  take  care !"  cries  Mona,  in  an  agony :  "  it  is 
loaded.  If  you  throw  it  about  in  that  rough  fashion,  it  will 
certainly  go  off  and  do  you  some  injury." 

"  Blow  me  to  atoms,  perhaps,  or  into  some  region  unknown," 
says  he,  recklessly.  "  A  good  thing,  too.  Is  life  so  sweet  a 
possession  that  one  need  quail  before  the  thought  of  resign- 
ing it?" 

"  You  speak  as  one  might  who  has  no  aim  in  life,"  says 
Mona,  looking  at  him  with  sincere  pity.     When  Mona  looks 

f)iteous  she  is  at  her  best.  Her  eyes  grow  large,  her  sweet 
ips  tremulous,  her  whole  face  pathetic.  The  role  suits  her. 
Rodney's  heart  begins  to  beat  with  dangerous  rapidity.  It  is 
quite  on  the  cards  that  a  man  of  his  reckless,  untrained,  dare- 
devil disposition  should  fall  madly  in  love  with  »  woman  sana 
peur  et  sans  reproche. 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  281 

"  An  aim  1"  he  Bays,  bitterly.  "  I  think  I  have  found  an 
end  to  my  life  where  most  fellows  find  a  beginning." 

"  By  and  by  you  will  think  differently,"  says  Mona,  be- 
lieving he  alludes  to  his  surrender  of  the  Rodney  property. 
"  You  will  get  over  this  disappointment." 

"  I  shall, — when  death  claims  me,"  replies  he. 

"  Nay,  now,"  says  Mona,  sweetly,  "  do  not  talk  like  that. 
It  grieves  me.  When  you  have  formed  a  purpose  worth  liv- 
ing for,  the  whole  world  will  undergo  a  change  for  you.  What 
is  dark  now  will  seem  light  then  ;  and  death  will  be  an  enemy, 
a  thing  to  battle  with,  to  fight  with  desperately  until  one's 
latest  breath.  In  the  mean  time,"  nervously,  "  do  be  cau- 
tious about  that  horrid  weapon  :  won't  you,  now  ?" 

"  You  ask  me  no  questions  about  last  night,"  he  says,  sud 
denly  ;  "  and  there  is  something  I  must  say  to  you.  Get  rid 
of  that  fellow  Kidgway,  the  under-gardener.  It  was  he 
opened  the  library  window  for  me.  He  is  untrustworthy,  and 
too  fond  of  filthy  lucre  ever  to  come  to  good.     I  bribed  him." 

He  is  now  speaking  with  some  difficulty,  and  is  looking, 
not  at  her,  but  at  the  pattern  he  is  drawing  on  the  soft  loam 
at  his  feet. 

"  Bribed  him  ?"  says  Mona,  in  an  indescribable  tone. 

"  Yes.  I  knew  about  the  secret  panel  from  Warden,  old 
Elspeth's  nephew,  who  alone,  I  think,  knew  of  its  existence. 
I  was  determined  to  get  the  will.  It  seemed  to  me,"  cries  he, 
with  sudden  excitement,  "  no  such  great  crime  to  do  away 
with  an  unrighteous  deed  that  took  from  an  elder  son  (with- 
out just  cause)  his  honest  rights,  to  bestow  them  upon  the 
younger.  What  had  my  father  done  ?  Nothing  I  His 
brother,  by  treachery  and  base  subterfuge,  supplanted  him, 
and  obtained  his  birthright,  while  he,  my  father,  was  cast 
out,  disinherited,  without  a  hearing." 

His  passion  carries  Mona  along  with  it. 

••  It  was  unjust,  no  doubt ;  it  sounds  so,"  she  says,  faintly. 
Yet  even  as  she  speaks  she  closes  her  little  slender  fingers  res- 
olutely upon  the  parchment  that  shall  restore  happiness  to 
Nicholas  and  dear  pretty  Dorothy. 

"  To  return  to  Ridgway,"  says  Paul  Rodney,  pulling  him- 
self up  abruptly.  "  See  him  yourself,  I  beg  of  you,  as  a  last 
favor,  and  dismiss  him.  Send  him  over  to  me :  I  will  take 
him  back  with  me  to  Australia  and  give  him  a  fresh  start  ia 

24* 


282  MRS.  GEOFFREY. 

life.  I  owe  him  bo  much,  as  I  was  the  first  to  tempt  him  into 
the  wrong  path ;  yet  I  doubt  whetlier  he  would  have  kept 
Btraiglit  even  had  he  not  met  me.  He  is  mauvais  sujet  all 
through." 

"  Surely,"  thinks  Mona  to  herself,  "  this  strange  young  man 
is  not  altogether  bad.  He  has  his  divine  touches  as  well  as 
another." 

"  I  will  do  as  you  ask,"  she  says,  wondering  when  the  in- 
terview will  come  to  an  end. 

"  After  all,  I  am  half  glad  Nicholas  is  not  to  be  routed," 
he  says,  presently,  with  some  weariness  in  his  tone.  "  The 
game  wasn't  worth  the  caudle.  I  should  never  have  been  able 
to  do  the  grand  seigneur  as  he  docs  it.  I  suppose  I  am  not 
to  the  manner  born.     Besides,  I  bear  him  no  malice." 

His  tone,  his  emphasis  on  the  pronoun,  is  significant, 

"Why  should  you  bear  malice  to  any  one?"  says  Mona, 
uneasily. 

"  Your  husband  called  me  '  thief.'  I  have  not  forgotten 
that,"  replies  he,  gloomily,  the  dark  blood  of  his  mother's  race 
rushing  to  his  cheek.  "  I  shall  remember  that  insult  to  my 
dying  day.  And  let  him  remember  this,  that  if  ever  I  meet 
liim  again,  alone,  and  face  to  face,  I  shall  kill  him  for  that 
word  only." 

"  Oh,  no  !  no  I"  says  Mona,  shrinking  from  him.  "  Why 
cherish  such  revenge  in  your  heart  ?  Would  you  kill  me  too, 
that  you  speak  like  this?  Fling  such  thoughts  far  from  you, 
and  strive  after  good.     Revenge  is  the  food  of  fools." 

"  Well,  at  least  I  sha'n't  have  many  more  opportunities  of 
meeting  him,"  says  Rodney.  "  I  shall  leave  this  country  as 
soon  as  I  can.  Tell  Nicholas  to  keep  the  title  with  the  rest, 
I  shall  never  use  it.  And  now,"  growing  very  pale,  "  it  only 
remains  to  say  good-by." 

"  Good-by,"  says  Mona,  softly,  giving  him  her  hand.  Ho 
keeps  it  fast  in  both  his  own.  Just  at  this  moment  it  dawns 
upon  her  for  the  first  time  that  this  man  loves  her  with  a  love 
surpassing  that  of  most.  The  knowledge  does  not  raise  within 
her  breast — as  of  course  it  should  do — feelings  of  virtuous 
indignation :  indeed,  I  regret  to  say  that  my  heroine  feels 
nothing  but  a  deep  and  earnest  pity,  that  betrays  itself  in  her 
expressive  face. 

"Last  night  you  called  mo  Paul.     Do  you  remember? 


MRS.   GEOFFREY.  283 

Call  mc  it  again,  for  the  last  time,"  he  entreats,  in  a  low  tone. 
"  I  shall  never  forget  what  I  felt  then.  If  ever  in  tlie  future 
you  hear  good  of  me,  believe  it  was  through  you  it  sprung  to 
life.  Till  my  dying  day  your  image  will  remain  with  me. 
Say  now,  '  Good-by,  Paul,'  before  I  go." 

"  Good-by,  dear  Paul,"  says  Mona,  very  gently,  impressed 
by  his  evident  grief  and  earnestness. 

"  Good-by,  my — my  beloved — cousin,"  he  says,  in  a  choked 
voice.  I  think  the  last  word  is  an  after-thought.  He  is  tear- 
ing himself  from  all  he  holds  most  sacred  upon  earth,  and  the 
strain  is  terrible.  He  moves  resolutely  a  few  yards  away  from 
her,  as  though  determined  to  put  space  between  him  and  her ; 
yet  then  he  pauses,  and,  as  though  powerless  to  withdraw 
from  her  presence,  returns  again,  and,  flinging  himself  on  his 
knees  before  her,  presses  a  fold  of  her  gown  to  his  lips  with 
passionate  despair. 

"  It  is  forever !"  he  says,  incoherently.  "  Oh,  Mona,  at 
'east — at  least  promise  you  will  always  think  kindly  of  me." 

"  Always — indeed,  always  !"  says  Mona,  with  tears  in  her 
■.yes ;  after  which,  with  a  last  miserable  glance,  he  strides 
away,  and  is  lost  to  sight  among  the  trees. 

Then  Mrs.  Geoifrey  turns  quickly,  and  runs  home  at  the 
top  of  her  speed.  She  is  half  sad,  yet  half  exultant,  being 
filled  to  the  very  heart  with  the  knowledge  that  life,  joy,  and 
emancipation  from  present  evil  lie  in  her  pocket.  This 
thought  crowns  all  others. 

As  she  comes  to  the  gravel  walk  that  leads  from  the  shi-ub- 
beries  to  the  sweep  before  the  hall  door,  she  encounters  the 
disgraced  llidgway,  doing  something  or  other  to  one  of  the 
shrubs  that  has  come  to  grief  during  the  late  bad  weather. 

He  touches  his  hat  to  her,  and  bids  her  a  respectful 
"good-afternoon,"  but  for  once  she  is  blind  to  his  salutation. 
Nevertheless,  she  stops  before  him,  and,  in  a  clear  voice,  feiys, 
coldly, — 

"  For  the  future  your  services  will  not  be  required  here. 
Your  new  master,  Mr.  Paul  Rodney,  whom  you  have  chosen 
to  obey  in  preference  to  those  in  whose  employ  you  have  been, 
will  give  you  your  commands  from  this  day.  Go  to  him,  and 
after  this  try  to  be  faithful." 

The  boy — he  is  little  more — cowers  beneath  her  glanco. 
He  changes  color,  and  drops  the  branch  he  holds.     No  excuse 


284  MRS.  OEOFFREY. 

rises  to  his  lips.  To  attempt  a  lie  with  those  clear  eyes  upon 
him  would  be  worse  than  useless.  He  turns  abruptly  away, 
and  is  dead  to  the  Towers  from  this  moment. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

now  CONVERSATION  GROWS  RIFE  AT  THE  TOWERS — AND 
now  MONA  ASSERTS  HERSELF — AND  HOW  LADY  RODNEY 
LICKS  THE  DUST. 

"  Where  can  Mona  be  ?"  says  Doatie,  suddenly. 

We  must  go  back  one  hour.  Lady  Lilias  Eaton  has  come 
and  gone.  It  is  now  a  quarter  to  five,  and  Violet  is  pouring 
out  tea  in  the  library. 

"  Yes ;  where  is  Mona  ?"  says  Jack,  looking  up  from  the 
cup  she  has  just  given  him. 

"  I  expect  I  know  more  than  most  about  her,"  says  Nolly, 
who  is  enjoying  himself  immensely  among  the  sponge-  and 
the  plum-cakes.  "  I  told  her  the  Esthetic  was  likely  to  call 
this  afternoon,  and  advised  her  strongly  to  make  her  escape 
while  she  could." 

"  She  evidently  took  your  advice,"  says  Nicholas. 

"  Well,  I  went  rather  minutely  into  it,  you  know.     1  ex 
plained  to  her  how  Lady  Lilias  was  probably  going  to  discuss 
the  new  curfew-bell  in  all  its  bearings ;  and  I  hinted  gloomily 
at  tlie  '  Domesday  Book.'      Tliat  fetched  her.     She  vamoosed 
on  the  spot." 

"  Nothing  makes  me  so  hungry  as  Lady  Lilias,"  says 
Doatie,  comfortably.  She  is  lying  back  in  a  huge  arm-chair 
that  is  capable  of  holding  three  like  her,  and  is  devouring 
bread-and-butter  like  a  dainty  but  starved  little  fairy.  Nich- 
olas, sitting  beside  her,  is  holding  her  tea-cup,  her  own  special 
tea-cup  of  gaudy  Sevres.  "  She  is  very  trying,  isn't  she, 
Nicholas  ?  What  a  dazzling  skin  she  has  1 — the  very  whitest 
I  ever  saw." 

"  Well,  that  is  in  her  favor,  I  really  think,"  says  Violet,  in 
her  most  unprejudiced  manner.  "  If  she  were  to  leave  off 
her  rococo  toilettes,  and  take  to  Elise  or  Worth  like  other 


MRS.  OEOFFREV.  285 

people,  and  give  up  posing,  and  try  to  behave  like  a  rational 
being,  ebe  might  almost  be  called  handsome." 

No  one  seconds  this  rash  opinion.  There  is  a  profound 
silence.  Miss  Mansergh  looks  mildly  round  for  support,  and, 
meeting  Jack's  eyes,  stops  there. 

"  Well,  really,  you  know,  yes.  I  think  there  is  something 
special  about  her,"  he  says,  feeling  himself  in  duty  bound  to 
Bay  something. 

"So  there  is;  something  specially  awful,"  responds  Nolly, 
pensively.  "  She  frightens  me  to  death.  She  has  an  '  eye 
like  a  gimlet.'  When  I  call  to  mind  the  day  my  father  in- 
veigled me  into  the  library  and  sort  of  told  me  I  couldn't  do 
better  than  go  in  for  Lilias,  my  knees  give  way  beneath  me 
and  smite  each  otiier  with  fear.  I  shudder  to  think  what  part 
in  her  mediaeval  programme  would  have  been  allotted  to  me." 

"You  would  have  been  her  henchman, — is  that  right,  Nich- 
olas?— or  her  vai-let,"  says  Dorothy,  with  conviction.  "  And 
you  would  have  had  to  stain  your  skin,  and  go  round  with  a 
cross-bow,  and  with  your  mouth  widened  from  ear  to  ear  to 
give  you  the  correct  look.  All  aesthetic  people  have  wide 
mouths,  have  they  not,  Nicholas  ?" 

"  Bless  me,  what  an  enthralling  picture!"  says  Mr.  Darling. 
"  You  make  me  regret  all  I  have  lost.  But  perhaps  it  is  not 
yet  too  late.  I  say,  Dolly,  you  are  eating  nothing.  Have 
some  more  bread-and-butter  or  cake,  old  girl.  You  don't  half 
take  care  of  yourself" 

"  Well,  do  you  know,  I  think  I  will  take  another  bit  of 
cake,"  says  Doatie,  totally  unabashed.  "And — cut  it  thick. 
After  all,  Noll,  I  don't  believe  Lilias  would  ever  marry  you, 
or  any  other  man  :  she  wouldn't  know  what  to  do  with  you." 

"  It  is  very  good  of  you  to  say  that,"  says  Nolly,  meekly 
but  gratefully.  "  It  gives  me  great  support.  You  honestly 
believe,  then,  that  I  may  escape  ?" 

"  Just  fancy  the  Esthetic  with  a  husband,  and  a  baby  on 
her  knee." 

"  Like  '  Loraine  Loraine  Loree,'  "  says  Violet,  laughing. 

"  Did  she  have  both  together  on  her  knee  ?"  asks  Dorothy, 
vaguely.     "  She  must  have  found  it  heavy." 

"  Oh,  one  at  a  time,"  says  Nolly.  "  She  couldn't  do  it  all 
at  once.     Such  a  stretch  of  fancy  requires  thought." 

At  this  moment,  Geoffrey — who  has  been  absent — saunters 


286  MRS.  GEOFFREY. 

into  the  room,  and,  after  a  careless  glance  around,  says,  liglitl) , 
afi  if  missing  something, — 

"Where  is  Mona?" 

"  Well,  we  thought  you  would  know,"  says  Lady  Rodney, 
speaking  for  the  first  time. 

"Yes.  Where  is  she?''  says  Doatie :  "  that  is  just  what 
we  all  want  to  know.  She  won't  get  any  tea  if  she  doesn't 
come  presently,  because  Nolly  is  bent  on  finishing  it.  Nolly," 
with  plaintive  protest,  "  don't  be  greedy." 

"  We  thought  she  was  with  you,"  says  Captain  llodney,  idly. 

"  She  is  out,"  says  Lady  Kodney,  in  a  compressed  tone. 

"  Is  she  ?  It  is  too  late  for  her  to  be  out,"  returns  Geof- 
frey, thinking  of  the  chill  evening  air. 

"  Quite  too  late,"  acquiesces  his  mother,  meaningly.  "  It 
is,  to  say  the  least  of  it,  very  strange,  very  unseemly.  Out  at 
this  hour,  and  alone, — if,  indeed,  she  is  alone !" 

Her  tone  is  so  unpleasant  and  so  significant  that  silence 
falls  upon  the  room.  GeolFrey  says  nothing.  Perhaps  he 
alone  among  them  fails  to  understand  the  meaning  of  her 
words.  He  seems  lost  in  thought.  So  lost,  that  the  others, 
watching  him,  wonder  secretly  what  the  end  of  his  medita- 
tions will  bring  forth  :  yet,  one  and  all,  they  mistake  him  :  no 
doubt  of  Mona  ever  has,  or  ever  will,  I  think,  cross  his  mind. 

Lady  Rodney  regards  him  curiously,  trying  to  read  his 
downcast  face.  Has  the  foolish  boy  at  last  been  brought  to 
see  a  flaw  in  his  idol  of  clay  ? 

Nicholas  is  looking  angry.  Jack,  sinking  into  a  chair  near 
Violet,  says,  in  a  whisper,  that  "  it  is  a  beastly  shame  his 
mother  cannot  let  Mona  alone.  She  seems,  by  Jove  1  bent  on 
turning  Geoflfrey  against  her." 

"  It  is  cruel,"  says  Violet,  with  suppressed  but  ardent  ire. 

"  If — if  you  loved  a  fellow,  would  anything  turn  you 
against  him  ?"  asks  he,  suddenly,  looking  her  full  in  the  face. 

And  she  answers, — 

"  Nothing.  Not  all  the  talking  in  the  wide  world,"  with  a 
brilliant  blush,  but  with  steady  earnest  eyes. 

Nolly,  mistrustful  of  Geoffrey's  silence,  goes  up  to  him, 
and,  laying  his  hands  upon  his  shoulders,  says,  quietly, — 

"  Mrs.  Geoffrey  is  incapable  of  making  any  mistake.  How 
silent  you  are,  old  fellow  !" 

"  Eh  ?"  says  Geoffrey,  rousing  himself  and  smiling  geuially. 


MRS.   GEOFFREY.  287 

"  A  mistake  ?  Oh,  no.  She  never  makes  mistakes.  I  was 
thinking  of  something  else.  But  she  really  ought  to  be  in 
now,  you  know ;  she  will  catch  her  death  of  cold." 

The  utter  want  of  suspicion  in  his  tone  drives  Lady  Rod- 
ney to  open  action.  To  do  her  justice,  dislike  to  Mona  has 
80  warped  her  judgment  that  she  almost  believes  in  the  evii 
she  seeks  to  disseminate  about  her. 

"  You  are  wilfully  blind,"  she  says,  flushing  hotly,  and 
smoothing  with  nervous  fingers  an  imaginary  wrinkle  from  her 
gown.  "  Of  course  I  explained  matters  as  well  as  I  could  to 
Mitchell,  but  it  was  very  awkward,  and  very  unpleasant,  and 
servants  are  never  deceived." 

"  I  hardly  think  I  follow  you,"  says  Geoffrey,  in  a  frozen 
tone.  "  In  regard  to  what  would  you  wish  your  servants  de- 
ceived ?" 

"  Of  course  it  is  quite  the  correct  thing  your  taking  it  in 
this  way,"  goes  on  his  mother,  refusing  to  be  warned,  and 
speaking  with  irritation, — "the  only  course  left  open;  but  it 
is  rather  absurd  with  me.  We  have  all  noticed  your  wife's 
extraordinary  civility  to  that  shocking  young  man.  Such  bad 
taste  on  her  part,  considering  how  he  stands  with  regard  to 
us,  and  the  unfortunate  circumstances  connected  with  him. 
But  no  good  ever  comes  of  unequal  marriages." 

"  Now,  once  for  all,  mother — "  begins  Nicholas,  vehemently, 
but  Geoffrey,  with  a  gesture,  silences  him. 

"  I  am  perfectly  content,  nay,  more  than  content,  with  the 
match  I  have  made,"  he  says,  haughtily ;  "  and  if  you  are  al- 
luding to  Paul  Kodney,  I  can  only  say  I  have  noticed  nothing 
reprehensible  in  Mona's  treatment  of  him." 

"  You  ai-e  very  much  to  be  admired,"  says  his  mother,  in 
an  abominable  tone. 

"  I  see  no  reason  why  she  should  not  talk  to  any  man  she 
pleases.  I  know  her  well  enough  to  trust  her  anywhere,  and 
am  deeply  thankful  for  such  knowledge.  In  fact,"  with  somo 
passion,  sudden  but  subdued,  "  I  feel  as  though  in  discussing 
her  in  this  cold-blooded  fashion  I  am  doing  her  some  grievous 
wrong." 

"  It  almost  amounts  to  it,"  says  Nicholas,  with  a  frown. 

"  Besides,  I  do  not  understand  what  you  mean,"  says  Geof- 
frey, still  regarding  his  mother  with  angry  eyes.  "  Why  con- 
nect Mona's  absence  with  Paul  Rodney?" 


288  MRS.  OEOFFRET. 

"  I  shall  tell  you,"  exclaims  she,  in  a  higher  tone,  her  pale- 
blue  eyes  flashing.  "  Two  hours  ago  my  own  maid  received 
a  note  from  Paul  Rodney's  man  directed  to  your  wife.  When 
she  read  it  she  dressed  herself  and  went  from  this  house  in 
the  direction  of  the  wood.  If  you  cannot  draw  your  own  con- 
clusions from  these  two  facts,  you  must  be  duller  or  more  ob- 
Btinate  than  I  give  you  credit  for." 

She  ceases,  her  work  accomplished.  The  others  in  the  room 
grow  weak  with  fear,  as  they  tell  themselves  that  things  are 
growing  too  dreadful  to  be  borne  much  longer.  When  the 
silence  is  quite  insupportable,  poor  little  Dorothy  struggles  to 
the  front. 

"  Dear  Lady  Rodney,"  she  says,  in  a  tremulous  tone,  "  are 
you  quite  sure  the  note  was  from  that — that  man  ?" 

"  Quite  sure,"  returns  her  future  mother-in-law,  grimly. 
"  I  never  speak,  Dorothy,  without  foundation  for  what  I  say." 

Dorothy,  feeling  snubbed,  subsides  into  silence  and  the 
shadow  that  envelopes  the  lounge  on  which  she  is  sitting. 

To  the  surprise  of  everybody,  Geoffrey  takes  no  open  notice 
of  his  mother's  speech.  He  does  not  give  way  to  wrath,  nor 
does  he  open  his  lips  on  any  subject.  His  face  is  innocent  of 
anger,  horror,  or  distrust.  It  changes,  indeed,  beneath  the 
glow  of  the  burning  logs,  but  in  a  manner  totally  unexpected. 
An  expression  that  might  even  be  termed  hope  lights  it  up. 
Like  this  do  his  thoughts  run  :  "  Can  it  be  possible  that  the 
Australian  has  caved  in,  and,  fearing  publicity  after  last  night's 
fiasco,  surrendered  the  will  to  Mona  ?" 

Possessed  with  this  thought, — which  drowns  all  others, — 
he  clasps  his  hands  behind  his  back  and  saunters  to  the  win- 
dow. "  Shall  he  go  and  meet  Mona  and  learn  the  truth  at 
once  ?  Better  not,,  perhaps  ;  she  is  such  a  clever  child  that  it 
is  as  well  to  let  her  achieve  victory  without  succor  of  any 
sort." 

He  leans  against  the  window  and  looks  out  anxiously  upon 
the  darkening  twilight.  His  mother  watches  him  with  curious 
eyes.  Suddenly  he  electrifies  the  whole  room  by  whistling  in 
a  light  and  airy  fashion  his  favorite  song  from  "  Madame  Fa- 
vart."  It  is  the  "  Artless  Thing,"  and  nothing  less,  and  he 
whistles  it  deliberately  and  dreamily  from  start  to  finish. 

It  seems  such  a  direct  running  commentary  on  Mona's  sup- 
posed ill  deed  that  every  one — as  by  a  single  impulse — looks 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  289 

up.  Nolly  and  Jack  Rodney  exchange  covert  glances.  But 
for  the  depression  that  reigns  all  round,  I  think  these  two 
would  have  given  way  to  frivolous  merriment. 

"  By  Jove,  you  know,  it  is  odd,"  says  GeoflPrey,  presently, 
speaking  as  one  might  who  has  for  long  been  following  out  a 
train  of  "thought  by  no  means  unpleasant,  "  his  sending  for  her, 
and  that:  there  must  be  something  in  it.  Rodney  didn't 
write  to  her  for  nothing.  It  must  have  been  to — --"  Here 
be  checks  himself  abruptly,  remembering  his  promise  to  Mona 
to  say  nothing  about  the  scene  in  the  library.  "  It  certainly 
means  something,"  he  winds  up,  a  little  tamely. 
"No  doubt," "returns  his  mother,  sneeringly. 
"  My  dear  mother,"  says  GeofiPrey,  coming  back  to  the  fire- 
light, "  what  you  would  insinuate  is  too  ridiculous  to  be  taken 
any  notice  of"  Every  particle  of  his  former  passion  has  died 
from  his  voice,  and  he  is  now  quite  calm,  nay,  cheerful.  "  But 
at  the  same  timo  I  must  ask  you  to  remember  you  are  speak- 
ing of  my  wife." 

"  I  do  remember  it,"  replies  she,  bitterly. 
Just  at  this  moment  a  light  step  running  up  the  stairs  out- 
(ride  and  across  the  veranda  makes  itself  heard.  Every  one 
looks  expectant,  and  the  slight  displeasure  dies  out  of  Geof- 
frey's face.  A  slender,  graceful  figure  appears  at  the  window, 
and  taps  lightly. 

"  Open  the  window,  Geofi","  cries  Mona,  eagerly,  and  as  he 
obeys  her  commands  she  steps  into  the  room  with  a  certain 
touch  of  haste  about  her  movements,  and  looks  round  upon 
them  earnestly, — some  peculiar  expression,  born  of  a  glad 
thought,  rendering  her  lovely  face  even  more  perfect  than 
usual. 

There  is  a  smile  upon  her  lips;  her  hands  ai-e  clasped 
behind  her. 

"  I  am  so  glad  you  have  come,  darling,"  says  little  Dorothy, 
taking  ofi"  her  hat,  and  laying  it  on  a  chair  near  her. 

Geoffrey  removes  the  heavy  lace  that  lies  round  her  throat, 
»nd  then  leads  her  up  to  the  hearth-rug  nearly  opposite  to  his 
mother's  arm-chair. 

"Where  have  you  been,  Mona?"  he  asks,  quietly,  gazing 
into  the  great  honest  liquid  eyes  raised  so  willingly  to  his  own. 
"  You  shall  gue.ss,"  says  Mrs.  Geoffrey,  gayly,  with  a  little 
laugh.     "  Now,  where  do  you  think  ?" 
N        i  26 


290  MRS.  GEOFFREY. 

Geoffrey  says  nothing.  But  Sir  Nicholas,  as  though  im- 
pulsively,  says, — 

"  In  the  wood  ?" 

Perhaps  he  is  afraid  for  her.  Perhaps  it  is  a  gentle  hint  to 
her  that  the  truth  will  be  best.  Whatever  it  may  be,  Mona 
understands  him  not  at  all.     His  mother  glances  up  sharply. 

"  Why,  so  I  was,"  says  Mona,  opening  her  eyes  with  some 
surprise,  and  with  an  amused  smile.  "  What  a  good  guess,  and 
considering  how  late  the  hour  is,  too !" 

She  smiles  again.  Lady  Rodney,  watching  her  intently, 
tells  herself  if  this  is  acting  it  is  the  most  perfectly  done  thing 
she  ever  saw  in  her  life,  either  on  the  stage  or  off  it. 

Geoffrey's  arm  slips  from  his  wife's  shoulders  to  her  rounded 
waist. 

"  Perhaps,  as  you  have  been  so  good  at  your  first  guess 
you  will  try  again,"  says  Mona,  still  addressing  Nicholas,  and 
speaking  in  a  tone  of  unusual  light-heartedness,  but  so  stand- 
ing that  no  one  can  see  why  her  hands  are  so  persistently 
clasped  behind  her  back.     "  Now  tell  me  who  I  was  with." 

This  is  a  thunderbolt.  They  all  start  guiltily,  and  regard 
Mona  with  wonder.     What  is  she  going  to  say  next  ? 

"  So,"  she  says,  mockingly,  laughing  at  Nicholas,  "  you  can- 
not play  the  seer  any  longer  ?  Well,  I  shall  tell  you.  I  was 
with  Paul  Rodney !" 

She  is  plainly  quite  enchanted  with  the  sensation  she  is 
creating,  though  she  is  far  from  comprehending  how  com- 
plete that  sensation  is.  Something  in  her  expression  appeals 
to  Doatie's  heart  and  makes  her  involuntarily  go  closer  to  her. 
Her  face  is  transfigured.  It  is  full  of  love  and  unselfish  joy 
and  happy  exultation  :  always  lovely,  there  is  at  this  moment 
something  divine  about  her  beauty. 

"  What  have  you  got  behind  your  back  ?"  says  Geoffrey, 
suddenly,  going  up  to  her. 

She  flushes,  opens  her  lips  as  if  to  speak,  and  yet  is  dumb, 
— perhaps  through  excess  of  emotion. 

"  Mona,  it  is  not — it  cannot  be — but  is  it?"  asks  he,  inco- 
herently. 

"  The  missing  will  ?  Yes — yes — yes .'"  cries  she,  raising 
the  hand  that  is  behind  her,  and  holding  it  high  above  her 
head  with  the  will  held  tightly  in  it. 

It  is  a  supreme  moment.     A  deadly  silence  falls  upon  the 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  291 

room,  and  then  Dorothy  bursts  into  tears.  In  my  heart  I 
believe  she  feels  as  much  relief  at  Mona's  exculpation  as  at 
the  discovery  of  the  desired  deed. 

Mona,  turning  not  to  Nicholas  or  to  Doatie  or  to  Geoffrey 
but  to  Lady  Rodney,  throws  the  paper  into  her  lap. 

"The  will — but  are  you  sure — sure?"  says  Lady  Rodney, 
feebly.  She  tries  to  rise,  but  sinks  back  again  in  her  chair, 
feeling  faint  and  overcome. 

"  Quite  sure,"  says  Mona,  and  then  she  laughs  aloud, — a 
sweet,  joyous  laugh, — and  clasps  her  hands  together  with  un- 
disguised delight  and  satisfaction. 

Geoffrey,  who  has  tears  in  his  eyes,  takes  her  in  his  arms 
and  kisses  her  once  softly  before  them  all. 

"  My  best  beloved,"  he  says,  with  passionate  fondness,  be- 
neath his  breath ;  but  she  hears  him,  and  wonders  vaguely 
but  gladly  at  his  tone,  not  understanding  the  rush  of  tender- 
ness that  almost  overcomes  him  as  he  remembers  how  his 
mother — whom  she  has  been  striving  with  all  her  power  to 
benefit — has  been  grossly  maligning  and  misjudging  her. 
Truly  she  is  too  good  for  those  among  whom  her  lot  has  been 
cast. 

"  It  is  like  a  fairy-tale,"  says  Violet,  with  unwonted  excite- 
ment.    "  Oh,  Mona,  tell  us  how  you  managed  it." 

"  Well,  just  after  luncheon  Letitia,  your  maid,  brought  me 
a  note.  I  opened  it.  It  was  from  Paul  Rodney,  asking  me 
to  meet  him  at  three  o'clock,  as  he  had  something  of  impor- 
tance to  say  that  concerned  not  me  but  those  I  loved.  When 
he  said  that,"  says  Mona,  looking  round  upon  them  all  with  a 
large,  soft,  comprehensive  glance,  and  a  sweet  smile,  "  I  knew 
he  meant  i/ou.  So  I  went.  I  got  into  my  coat  and  hat,  and 
ran  all  the  way  to  the  spot  he  had  appointed, — the  big  chestnut- 
tree  near  the  mill-stream  :  you  know  it,  Geoff,  don't  you?" 

"  Yes,  I  know  it,"  says  Geoffrey. 

"  He  was  there  before  me,  and  almost  immediately  he  drew 
the  will  from  his  pocket,  and  said  he  would  give  it  to  me  if 
— if — Well,  he  gave  it  to  me,"  says  Mrs.  Geoffrey,  changing 
color  as  she  remembers  her  merciful  escape.  "  And  he  desired 
me  to  tell  you,  Nicholas,  that  he  would  never  claim  the  title, 
as  it  was  useless  to  him  and  it  sits  so  sweetly  on  you.  And 
then  I  clutched  the  will,  and  held  it  tightly,  and  ran  all  the 
way  back  with  it,  and — and  that's  all  1" 


292  AJIiS.  OEOFFREY. 

She  smiles  again,  and,  with  a  sigh  of  rapture  at  her  own 
succjcss,  turns  to  Geoffrey  and  presses  her  lips  to  his  out  of 
the  very  fulness  of  her  heart. 

"  Why  have  you  taken  all  this  trouble  about  us  ?"  says  Lady 
Rodney,  leaning  forward  to  look  at  the  girl  anxiously,  her  voice 
low  and  trembling. 

At  this  Mona,  being  a  creature  of  impulse,  grows  onoe  more 
pale  and  troubled. 

"  It  was  for  you,"  she  says,  hanging  her  head.  "  I  thought 
if  I  could  do  something  to  make  you  happier,  you  might  learn 
to  love  me  a  little  1" 

"  I  have  wronged  you,"  says  Lady  Rodney,  in  a  low  tone, 
covering  her  face  with  her  hands. 

"  Go  to  her,"  says  Geoffrey,  and  Mona,  slipping  from  his 
embrace,  falls  on  her  knees  at  his  mother's  feet.  With  one 
little  frightened  hand  she  tries  to  possess  herself  of  the  fingers 
that  shield  the  elder  woman's  face. 

"  It  is  too  late,"  says  Lady  Rodney,  in  a  stifled  tone.  "  I 
have  said  so  many  things  about  you,  that — that " 

"  I  don't  care  what  you  have  said,"  interrupts  Mona,  quickly. 
She  has  her  arras  round  Lady  Rodney's  waist  by  this  time, 
and  is  regarding  her  beseechingly. 

"  There  is  too  much  to  forgive,"  says  Lady  Rodney,  and  as 
she  speaks  two  tears  roll  down  her  cheeks.  This  evidence  of 
emotion  from  her  is  worth  a  torrent  from  another. 

"  Let  there  be  no  talk  of  forgiveness  between  you  and  me," 
eays  Mona,  very  sweetly,  after  which  Lady  Rodney  fairly  gives 
way,  and,  placing  her  arms  round  the  kneeling  girl,  draws  her 
to  her  bosom  and  kisses  her  tenderly. 

Every  one  is  delighted.  Perhaps  Nolly  and  Jack  Rodney 
are  conscious  of  a  wild  desire  to  laugh,  but,  if  so,  they  man- 
fully suppress  it,  and  behave  as  decorously  as  the  rest. 

"  Now  I  am  quite,  quite  happy,"  says  Mona,  and,  rising 
from  her  knees,  she  goes  back  again  to  Geoffrey,  and  stands 
beside  him.  "  Tell  them  all  about  last  night,"  she  says,  look- 
ing up  at  him,  "  and  the  secret  cupboard." 


MRS.  QEOFFRET.  293 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

now     THE     RODNEYS     MAKE     MERRY    OVER    THE     SECRET 

PANEL HOW   GEOFFREY   QUESTIONS    MONA — AND    HOW, 

WHEN    JOY   IS    AT    ITS    HIGHEST,  EVIL    TIDINGS    SWEEP 
DOWN   UPON   THEM. 

At  the  mention  of  the  word  "  secret"  every  one  grows  very 
much  alive  at  once.  Even  Lady  Rodney  dries  her  tears  and 
looks  up  expectantly. 

"  Yes,  Geoffrey  and  I  have  made  a  discovery, — a  most  im- 
portant one, — and  it  has  lain  heavy  on  our  breasts  all  day. 
Now  tell  them  everything  about  last  night,  Geoff,  from  be- 
ginning to  end." 

Thus  adjured, — though  in  truth  he  requires  little  pressing, 
having  been  devoured  with  a  desire  since  early  dawn  to  reveal 
the  hidden  knowledge  that  is  in  his  bosom, — Geoffrey  relates 
to  them  the  adventure  of  the  night  before.  Indeed,  he  gives 
such  a  brilliant  coloring  to  the  tale  that  every  one  is  stricken 
dumb  with  astonishment,  Mona  herself  perhaps  being  the 
most  astonished  of  all.  However,  like  a  good  wife,  she  makes 
no  comments,  and  contradicts  his  statements  not  at  all,  so  that 
(emboldened  by  her  evident  determination  not  to  interfere 
with  anything  he  may  choose  to  say)  he  gives  them  such  a 
story  as  absolutely  brings  down  the  house, — metaphorically 
speaking. 

"  A  secret  panel !  Oh,  how  enchanting  I  do,  do  show  it  to 
me  1"  cries  Doatie  Darling,  when  this  marvellous  recital  has 
come  to  an  end.  "  If  there  is  one  thing  I  adore,  it  is  a  secret 
chamber,  or  a  closet  in  a  house,  or  a  ghost." 

"  You  may  have  the  ghosts  all  to  yourself  I  sha'n't  grudge 
them  to  you.  I'll  have  the  cupboards,"  says  Nicholas,  who 
has  grown  at  least  ten  years  younger  during  the  last  hour. 
"  Mona,  show  us  this  one." 

Mona,  drawing  a  chair  to  the  panelled  wall,  steps  up  on  it, 
and,  pressing  her  finger  on  the  seventh  panel,  it  slowly  rolli 
back,  betraying  the  vacuum  behind. 

25» 


294  MRS.  GEOFFREV. 

They  all  examine  it  with  interest,  Nolly  being  specially 
voluble  on  the  occasion. 

"  And  to  think  we  all  sat  pretty  nearly  every  evening 
within  a  yard  or  two  of  that  blessed  will,  and  never  knew  any- 
thing about  it  1"  he  says,  at  last,  in  a  tone  of  unmitigated 
disgust. 

"  Yes,  that  is  just  what  occurred  to  me,"  says  Mona,  nod- 
ding her  head  sympathetically, 

"  No  !  did  it?"  says  Nolly,  sentimentally.  "  How — how 
awfully  satisfactory  it  is  to  know  we  both  thought  alike  on 
even  one  subject !" 

Mona,  after  a  stare  of  bewilderment  that  dies  at  its  birth, 
gives  way  to  laughter :  she  is  still  standing  on  the  chair,  and 
looking  down  on  Nolly,  who  is  adoring  her  in  the  calm  and 
perfectly  open  manner  that  belongs  to  him. 

Just  then  Dorothy  says, — 

"  Shut  it  up  tight  again,  Mona,  and  let  me  try  to  open  it." 
And,  Mona  having  closed  the  panel  again  and  jumped  down 
off  the  chair,  Doatie  takes  her  place,  and,  supported  by  Nicho- 
las, opens  and  shuts  the  secret  door  again  and  again  to  her 
heart's  content. 

"  It  is  quite  simple :  there  is  no  deception,"  says  Mr.  Dar- 
ling, addressing  the  room,  with  gracious  encouragement  in  his 
tone,  shrugging  his  shoulders  and  going  through  all  the  airs 
and  graces  that  belong  to  the  orthodox  French  showman. 

"  It  is  qui*-e  necessary  you  should  know  all  about  it,"  saya 
Nicholas,  in  a  low  tone,  to  Dorothy,  whom  he  is  holding  care- 
fully, as  though  under  the  mistaken  impression  that  young 
women  if  left  on  chairs  without  support  invariably  fail  off 
them.  "  As  the  future  mistress  here,  you  ought  to  be  up  to 
every  point  connected  with  the  old  place." 

Miss  Darling  blushes.  It  is  so  long  since  she  has  given 
way  to  this  weakness  that  now  she  does  it  warmly  and  gener- 
ously, as  though  to  make  up  for  other  opportunities  neglected. 
She  scrambles  down  off  the  chair,  and,  going  up  to  Mona, 
surprises  that  heroine  of  the  hour  by  bestowing  upon  her  a 
warm  though  dainty  hug. 

"  It  is  all  your  doing.  How  wretched  we  should  have  been 
had  we  never  seen  you  I"  she  says,  with  tears  of  gratitude  in 
her  eyes. 

Altogether  it  is  a  very  exciting  and  pleasurable  moment. 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  295 

Tlie  panel  is  as  good  as  a  toy  to  them.  They  all  open  it 
by  turns,  and  wonder  over  it,  and  rejoice  in  it.  But  Geoflrey, 
taking  Mona  aside,  says,  curiously,  and  a  little  gravely, — 

"  Tell  me  why  you  hesitated  in  your  speech  a  while  ago. 
Talking  of  Rodney's  giving  you  the  will,  you  said  he  offered 
to  give  it  you  if — if What  did  the  '  if  mean  ?" 

"  Come  over  to  the  window,  and  I  will  tell  you,"  says  Mrs. 
Geoffrey.  "  He — he — you  must  take  no  notice  of  it,  Geof- 
frey, but  he  wanted  to  kiss  me.  He  offered  me  the  will  for 
one  kiss,  and " 

"You  didn't  get  possession  of  it  in  that  way?"  asks  he, 
seizing  her  hands  and  trying  to  read  her  face. 

"  Oh,  no  !  But  listen  to  my  story.  When  he  saw  how  I 
hated  his  proposal,  he  very  generously  forgave  the  price,  and 
let  me  have  the  document  a  free  gift.  That  was  rather  good 
of  him,  was  it  not?  because  men  like  having  their  own  way, 
you  know." 

"  Very  self-denying  of  him,  indeed,"  says  Geoffrey,  with  a 
slight  sneer,  and  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"  Had  I  given  in,  would  you  have  been  very  angry?"  asks 
she,  regarding  him  earnestly. 

"  Very." 

"  Then  what  a  mercy  it  is  I  didn't  do  it !"  says  Mona, 
naively.  "  I  was  very  near  it,  do  you  know  ?  I  had  actually 
said  '  Yes,'  because  I  could  not  make  up  my  mind  to  lose  the 
deed,  when  he  let  me  off  the  bargain.  But,  if  he  had  per- 
sisted, 1  tell  you  honestly  I  am  quite  sure  I  should  have  let 
him  kiss  me." 

"  Mona,  don't  talk  like  that,"  says  Geoffrey,  biting  his 
lips. 

"  Well,  but,  after  all,  one  can't  be  much  of  a  friend  if  one 
can't  sacrifice  one's  self  sometimes  for  those  one  loves,"  says 
Mrs.  Geoffrey,  reproachfully.  "  You  would  have  done  it 
yourself  in  my  place  1" 

"  What !  kiss  the  Australian  ?  I'd  see  him — very  well — 
that  is — ahem  !  I  certainly  would  not,  you  know,"  says  Mr. 
Rodney. 

"  Well,  I  suppose  I  am  wrong,"  says  Mona,  with  a  sigh. 
"  Are  you  very  angry  with  me,  Geoff?  Would  you  ever  have 
forgiven  me  if  I  had  done  it?" 

"  I  should,"  says  Geoffrey,  pressing  her  hands.      "  You 


296  MRS.  OEOFFREY. 

would  always  be  to  me  the  best  and  truest  woman  alive.     Bui 
— but  I  shouldn't  have  liked  it." 

"  Well,  neither  should  I  ?"  says  Mrs.  GtJofiFrey,  with  convic- 
tion. "  I  should  perfectly  have  hated  it.  But  I  should  never 
have  forgiven  myself  if  he  had  gone  away  with  the  will." 

"  It  is  quite  a  romance,"  says  Jack  Rodney :  "  I  never 
heard  anything  like  it  before  off  the  stage."  He  is  speaking 
to  the  room  generally.  "  I  doubt  if  any  one  but  you,  Mona, 
would  have  got  the  will  out  of  him.  He  hates  the  rest  of  us 
like  poison." 

"  But  — bless  me  ! — how  awfully  he  must  be  in  love  with 
you  to  resign  the  Towers  for  your  sake  1"  says  Nolly,  suddenly 
giving  words  to  the  thought  that  has  been  tormenting  him  for 
some  time. 

As  this  is  the  idea  that  has  haunted  every  one  since  the 
disclosure,  and  that  they  each  and  all  have  longed  but  feared 
to  discuss,  they  now  regard  Nolly  with  admiration, — all  save 
Lady  Rodney,  who,  remembering  her  unpleasant  insinuations 
of  an  hour  ago,  moves  uneasily  in  her  chair,  and  turns  an 
uncomfortable  crimson. 

Mona  is,  however,  by  no  means  disconcerted  :  she  lifts  her 
calm  eyes  to  Nolly's,  and  answers  him  without  even  a  blush. 

"  Do  you  know  it  never  occurred  to  me  until  this  after 
noon  ?"  she  says,  simply  ;  "  but  now  I  think — I  may  be  mis- 
taken, but  I  really  do  think  he  fancies  himself  in  love  with 
me.     A  very  silly  fancy,  of  course." 

"  He  must  adore  you ;  and  no  wonder,  too,"  says  Mr.  Dar- 
ling, so  emphatically  that  every  one  smiles,  and  Jack,  clapping 
him  on  the  back,  says, — 

"  Well  done,  Nolly  !     Go  it  again,  old  chap  !" 

"  Oh,  Mona,  what  courage  you  showed !  Just  imagine 
staying  in  the  library  when  you  found  yourself  face  to  face 
with  a  person  you  never  expected  to  see,  and  in  the  dead  of 
night,  with  every  one  sound  asleep !  In  your  case  I  should 
either  have  fainted  or  rushed  back  to  my  bedroom  again  aa 
fast  as  my  feet  could  carry  me ;  and  I  believe,"  says  Dorothy, 
with  conviction,  "  I  should  so  far  b^-ve  forgotten  myself  as  to 
scream  every  inch  of  the  way." 

"  I  don't  believe  you  would,"  say?  Mona.  "  A  great  shock 
sobers  one.  I  forgot  to  be  frighten&'l  uot^  '^  v^^  all  ot«t. 
And  then  the  dogs  were  a  great  support  ' 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  297 

"  "WTien  he  held  the  pistol  to  your  forehead,  didn't  you  scream 
then  ?"  asks  Violet. 

"To  my  forehead?"  says  Mona,  puzzled;  and  then  she 
glances  at  Geoffrey,  remembering  that  this  was  one  of  th« 
slight  variations  with  which  he  adorned  his  tale. 

*'  No,  she  didn't,"  interposes  he,  lightly.  "  She  never 
funked  it  for  a  moment :  she's  got  any  amount  of  pluck.  Ho 
didn't  exactly  press  it  against  her  forehead,  you  know  ;  but," 
airily,  "  it  is  all  the  same  thing." 

"  When  you  got  the  pistol  so  cleverly  into  your  own  posses- 
sion, why  on  earth  didn't  you  shoot  him?"  demands  Mr.  Dar- 
ling, gloomily,  who  evidently  feels  bloodthirsty  when  he 
thinks  of  the  Australian  and  his  presumptuous  admiration  for 
the  peerless  Mona. 

"  Ah  I  sure  you  know  I  wouldn't  do  that,  now !"  returns 
she,  with  a  stronger  touch  of  her  native  brogue  than  she  haa 
used  for  many  a  day ;  at  which  they  all  laugh  heartily,  even 
Lady  Rodney  chiming  in  as  easily  as  though  the  day  had 
never  been  when  she  had  sneered  contemptuously  at  that  self- 
same Irish  tongue. 

"  Well,  '  All's  well  that  ends  well,' "  says  Captain  Rodney, 
thoughtlessly.  "  If  that  delectable  cousin  of  ours  would  only 
sink  into  the  calm  and  silent  grave  now,  we  might  even  have 
the  title  back  without  fear  of  dispute,  and  find  ourselves  just 
where  we  began." 

It  is  at  this  very  moment  the  library  door  is  suddenly  flung 
open,  and  Jenkins  appears  upon  the  threshold,  with  his  face 
as  white  as  nature  will  permit,  and  hLs  usually  perfect  manner 
much  disturbed.  "  Sir  Nicholas,  can  I  speak  to  you  for  a  mo- 
ment?" he  says,  with  much  excitement,  growing  positively 
apoplectic  in  his  endeavor  to  be  calm. 

"  What  is  it,  Jenkins  ?  Speak  I"  says  Lady  Rodney,  ris- 
ing from  her  chair,  and  staying  him,  as  he  would  leave  the 
room,  by  an  imperious  gesture. 

"  Oh,  my  lady,  if  I  must  speak,"  cries  the  old  man,  "  but 
it  is  terrible  news  to  tell  without  a  word  of  warning.  Mr. 
Paul  Rodney  is  dying :  he  shot  himself  half  an  hour  ago,  and 
is  lying  now  at  Rawson's  Lodge  in  the  beech  wood." 

Mona  grows  livid,  and  takes  a  step  forward. 

"  Shot  himself!  How  ?"  she  says,  hoarsely,  her  bosom  ris. 
ing  and  falling  tumultuously.     "  Jenkins,  answer  me." 


298  MRS.  QEOFFRET. 

"  Tell  us,  Jenkins,"  says  Nicholas,  hastily. 

"  It  appears  he  had  a  pocket-pistol  with  him.  Sir  Nicholas, 
and  going  home  through  the  wood  he  stumbled  over  some 
roots,  and  it  went  off  and  injured  him  fatally.  It  is  an  in- 
ternal wound,  my  lady.  Dr.  Bland,  who  is  with  him,  says 
there  is  no  hope." 

"  No  hope  !"  says  Mona,  with  terrible  despair  in  her  voice : 
"  then  I  have  killed  him.  It  was  I  returned  him  that  pistol 
this  evening.  It  is  my  fault, — mine.  It  is  I  have  caused 
his  death." 

This  thought  seems  to  overwhelm  her.  She  raises  her 
hands  to  her  head,  and  an  expression  of  keenest  anguish 
creeps  into  her  eyes.  She  sways  a  little,  and  would  have 
fallen,  but  that  Jack  Rodney,  who  is  nearest  to  her  at  this 
moment,  catches  her  in  his  arms. 

"  Mona,"  says  Nicholas,  roughly,  laying  his  hand  on  her 
shoulder,  and  shaking  her  slightly,  "  I  forbid  you  talking  like 
that.  It  is  nobody's  fault.  It  is  the  will  of  God.  It  is 
morbid  and  sinful  of  you  to  let  such  a  thought  enter  your 
head." 

"  So  it  is  really,  Mrs.  Geoffrey,  you  know,"  says  Nolly, 
placing  his  hand  on  her  other  shoulder  to  give  her  a  second 
shake.  "  Nick's  quite  right.  Don't  take  it  to  heart ;  don't, 
now.  You  might  as  well  say  the  gunsmith  who  originally 
sold  him  the  fatal  weapon  is  responsible  for  this  unhappy 
event,  as — as  that  you  are." 

"Besides,  it  may  be  an  exaggeration,"  suggests  Geoffrey: 
"  he  may  not  be  as  bad  as  they  say." 

"  I  fear  there  is  no  doubt  of  it,  sir,"  says  Jenkins,  respects 
fully,  who  in  his  heart  of  hearts  looks  upon  this  timely  acci- 
dent as  a  direct  interposition  of  Providence.  "  And  the  mes- 
senger who  came  (and  who  is  now  in  the  hall,  Sir  Nicholas, 
if  you  would  wish  to  question  him)  says  Dr.  Bland  sent  him 
up  to  let  you  know  at  once  of  the  unfortunate  occurrence." 

Having  said  all  this  without  a  break,  Jenkins  feels  he  has 
outdone  himself,  and  retires  on  his  laurels. 

Nicholas,  going  into  the  outer  hall,  cross-examines  the 
boy  who  has  brought  the  melancholy  tidings,  and,  having 
spoken  to  him  for  some  time,  goes  back  to  the  library  with  a 
face  even  graver  than  it  was  before. 

"  The  poor  fellow  is  calling  for  you,  Mona,  incessantly,"  he 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  299 

says.  "  It  remains  with  you  to  decide  whether  you  will  go 
to  him  or  not.  Geoifrey,  you  should  have  a  voice  in  this  mat^ 
ter,  and  I  think  she  ought  to  go." 

"  Oh,  Mona,  do  go — do,"  entreats  Doatie,  who  is  in  tears. 
"  Poor,  poor  fellow !  I  wish  now  I  had  not  been  so  rude 
to  him." 

"  Geoffrey,  will  you  take  me  to  him  ?"  says  Mona,  rousing 
herself. 

"  Yes.  HuiTy,  darling.  If  you  think  you  can  bear  it, 
you  should  lose  no  time.  Minutes  even,  I  fear,  are  precious 
in  this  case." 

Then  some  one  puts  on  her  again  the  coat  she  had  taken  off 
Buch  a  short  time  since,  and  some  one  else  puts  on  her  seal- 
skin cap  and  twists  her  black  lace  round  her  white  throat, 
and  then  she  turns  to  go  on  her  sad  mission.  All  their  joy  is 
turned  to  mourning,  their  laughter  to  tears. 

Nicholas,  who  had  left  the  room  again,  returns  now,  bring- 
ing with  him  a  glass  of  wine,  which  he  compels  her  to  swal- 
low, and  then,  pale  and  frightened,  but  calmer  than  she  wa^ 
before,  she  leaves  the  house,  and  starts  with  Geoffrey  for  the 
gamekeeper's  lodge,  where  lies  the  man  they  had  so  dreaded, 
impotent  in  the  arms  of  death. 

Night  is  creeping  up  over  the  land.  Already  in  the  hea- 
vens the  pale  crescent  moon  just  born  rides  silently, — 

"  Wi'  the  auld  moon  in  hir  arme." 

A  deep  hush  has  fallen  upon  everything.  The  air  is  cold  and 
piercing.  Mona  shivers,  and  draws  even  closer  to  Geoffrey, 
as,  mute,  yet  full  of  saddest  thought,  they  move  through  the 
leafless  wood. 

As  they  get  within  view  of  the  windows  of  Rawson's  cot- 
tage, they  are  met  by  Dr.  Bland,  who  has  seen  them  coming, 
and  has  hurried  out  to  receive  them. 

"  Now,  this  is  kind, — very  kind,"  says  the  little  man.  ap- 
provingly, shaking  both  their  hands.  "  And  so  soon,  too ;  no 
time  lost.  Poor  soul !  he  is  calling  incessantly  for  you,  my 
dear  Mrs.  Geoffrey.  It  is  a  sad  case, — very — very.  Away 
from  every  one  he  knows.     But  come  in  ;  come  in." 

He  draws  Mrs.  Geoffrey's  hand  through  his  arm,  and  go<w 
towards  the  lodge. 

"  Is  there  no  hope?"  asks  Geoffrey,  gravely. 


300  MRS.  OE0FFRE7. 

"  None ;  none.  It  would  be  useless  to  say  otherwise.  In- 
ternal hemorrhage  has  set  in.  A  few  hours,  perhaps  leag  moat 
end  it.     He  knows  it  himself,  poor  boy  !" 

"  Oh  I  can  nothing  be  done  ?"  asks  Mona,  turning  to  him 
eyes  full  of  entreaty. 

"  My  dear,  what  I  could  do,  I  have  done,"  says  the  littlo 
man,  patting  her  hand  in  his  kind  fatherly  fashion ;  "  but  he 
has  gone  beyond  human  skill.  And  now  one  thing :  you 
have  come  here,  I  know,  with  the  tender  thought  of  soothing 
his  last  hours  :  therefore  I  entreat  you  to  be  calm  and  very 
quiet.  Emotion  will  only  distress  him,  atd,  if  you  feel  too 
nervous,  you  know — perhaps — eh  ?" 

"  I  shall  not  be  too  nervous,"  says  Mona,  but  her  face 
blanches  afresh  even  as  she  speaks ;  and  Geoffrey  sees  it. 

"  If  it  is  too  much  for  you,  darling,  say  so,"  whispers  he  ; 
"  or  shall  I  go  with  you  ?" 

"  It  is  better  she  should  go  alone,"  says  Dr.  Bland.  "  He 
would  be  quite  unequal  to  two ;  and,  besides, — pardon  me,— 
from  what  he  has  said  to  me  I  fear  there  were  unpleasant 
passages  between  you  and  him." 

"  There  were,"  confesses  Geofirey,  reluctantly,  and  in  a  low 
tone.  *'  I  wish  now  from  my  soul  it  had  been  otherwise.  I 
regret  much  that  has  taken  place." 

"  We  all  have  regrets  at  times,  dear  boy,  the  very  best  of 
us,"  says  the  little  doctor,  blowing  his  nose :  "  who  among  ug 
is  faultless  ?  And  really  the  circumstances  were  very  trying 
for  you, — very — eh  ?  Yes,  of  course  one  understands,  you 
know ;  but  death  heals  all  divisions,  and  he  is  hurrying  to  hia 
last  account,  poor  lad,  all  too  soon." 

They  have  entered  the  cottage  by  this  time,  and  are  stanJ- 
ing  in  the  tiny  hall. 

"  Open  that  door,  Mrs.  Geoffrey,"  says  the  doctor,  point- 
ing to  his  right  hand.  "  I  saw  you  coming,  and  have  pro- 
pared  him  for  the  interview.  I  shall  be  just  here,  or  in  the 
next  room,  if  you  should  want  me.  But  I  can  do  little  for 
him  more  than  I  have  done." 

"  You  will  be  near  too,  Geoffrey  ?"  murmurs  Mona,  falter- 

"  Yes,  yes  ;  I  promise  for  him,"  says  Dr.  Bland.  "  In 
fact,  I  have  something  to  say  to  your  husband  that  must  be 
told  at  once." 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  301 

Then  Mona,  opening  the  door  indicated  to  her  by  the  doc- 
tor, goes  into  the  chamber  beyond,  and  is  lost  to  their  view 
for  some  time. 


CHAPTER    XXXV. 


HOW  MONA  COMFORTS  PAUL  RODNEY — HOW  NIGHT  AND 
DEATH  DESCEND  TOGETHER — AND  HOW  PAUL  RODNEY 
DISPOSES   OF    HIS    PROPERTY. 

On  a  low  bed,  with  his  eyes  fastened  eagerly  upon  the  door, 
lies  Paul  Rodney,  the  dews  of  death  already  on  his  face. 

There  is  no  disfigurement  about  him  to  be  seen,  no  stain 
of  blood,  no  ugly  mark ;  yet  he  is  touched  by  the  pale  hand 
of  the  destroyer,  and  is  sinking,  dying,  withering  beneath  it. 
He  has  aged  at  least  ten  years  within  the  last  fatal  hour, 
while  in  his  eyes  lies  an  expression  so  full  of*  hungry  expect- 
ancy and  keen  longing  as  amounts  almost  to  anguish. 

As  Mona  advances  to  his  side,  through  the  gathering  gloom 
of  fast  approaching  night,  pale  almost  as  he  is,  and  trembling 
in  every  limb,  this  miserable  anxiety  dies  out  of  his  face, 
leaving  behind  it  a  rest  and  peace  unutterable. 

To  her  it  is  an  awful  moment.  Never  before  has  she  stood 
face  to  face  with  dissolution,  to  wait  for  the  snapping  of  the 
chain, — the  breaking  of  the  bowl.  "  Neither  the  sun  nor 
death,"  says  La  Rochefoucauld,  "can  be  looked  at  steadily  ;" 
and  now  "  Death's  thousand  doors  stand  open"  to  receive  this 
man  that  but  an  hour  agone  was  full  of  life  as  she  is  now. 
His  pulses  throbbed,  his  blood  coursed  lightly  through  his 
veins,  the  grave  seemed  a  far-off  destination  ;  yet  here  he  lies, 
smitten  to  the  earth,  beaten  down  and  trodden  under,  with 
nothing  further  to  anticipate  but  the  last  change  of  all. 

"  0  Death  !  thou  strange,  mysterious  power,  seen  every  day, 
yet  never  understood  but  by  the  incommunicative  dead,  what 
art  thou  ? ' 

"  You  have  come,"  he  says,  with  a  quick  sigh  that  bespeaks 
relief.  "  I  knew  you  would.  I  felt  it ;  yet  I  feared.  Oh, 
what  comlbrt  to  see  you  again  I" 

Mona  tries  to  say  somethintr, — anything  that  will  be  kind 
20 


302  MRS.  GEOFFREY. 

and  sympathetic, — but  words  fail  her.  Her  lips  part,  but  no 
sound  escapes  them.  The  terrible  reality  of  the  moment  ter- 
rifies and  overcomes  her. 

"  Do  not  try  to  make  me  any  common-place  speeches,"  says 
Rodney,  marking  her  hesitation.  He  speaks  hastily,  yet  with 
evident  difficulty.  "  I  am  dying.  Nothing  can  alter  that 
But  death  has  brought  you  to  my  side  again,  so  I  cannot  re- 
pine." 

"  But  to  find  you  like  this" — begins  Mona.  And  then, 
OTercome  by  grief  and  agitation,  she  covers  her  face  with  her 
hands,  and  bursts  into  tears. 

"  Mona  1  Are  you  crying  for  me  ?"  says  Paul  Rodney,  as 
though  surprised.  "  Do  not.  Your  tears  hurt  me  more  than 
this  wound  that  has  done  me  to  death." 

"  Oh,  if  I  had  not  given  you  that  pistol,"  sobs  Mona,  who 
cannot  conquer  the  horror  of  the  thought  that  she  has  helped 
him  to  his  death,  "  you  would  be  alive  and  strong  now." 

"  Yes, — and  miserable  I  you  forget  to  add  that.  Now 
everything  seems  squared.  In  the  grave  neither  grief  nor 
revenge  can  find  a  place.  And  as  for  you,  what  have  you  to 
do  with  my  fate  ? — nothing.  Why  should  you  not  return  to 
me  my  own  ?  and  why  should  I  not  die  by  the  weapon  I  had 
dared  to  level  against  yourself?  There  is  a  justice  in  it  that 
emacks  of  Sadlers'  Wells." 

He  actually  laughs,  though  faintly,  and  Mona  looks  up. 
Perhaps  he  has  forced  himself  to  this  vague  touch  of  merri- 
ment (that  is  even  sadder  than  tears)  just  to  please  and  rouse 
her  from  her  despondency, — because  the  laugh  dies  almost 
as  it  is  born,  and  an  additional  pallor  covers  his  lips  in  its 
stead. 

"  Listen  to  me,"  he  goes  on,  in  a  lower  key,  and  with  some 
slight  signs  of  exhaustion.  "  I  am  glad  to  die, — unfeignedly 
glad :  therefore  rejoice  with  me  !  Why  should  you  waste  a 
tear  on  such  as  I  am  ?  Do  you  remember  how  I  told  you 
(barely  two  hours  ago)  that  my  life  had  come  to  an  end  where 
other  i'ellows  hope  to  begin  theirs  ?  I  hardly  knew  myself 
how  prophetic  my  words  would  prove." 

"  It  is  terrible,  terrible,"  says  Mona,  piteously,  sinking  on 
her  knees  beside  the  bed.  One  of  his  hands  is  lying  outside 
the  coverlet,  and,  with  a  gesture  full  of  tender  regret,  she  lays 
hor  own  upon  it. 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  303 

"  Are  you  in  pain  ?"  she  says,  in  a  low,  fearful  tone.  "  Do 
you  suflFer  much  ?" 

"I  suffer  nothing:  I  have  no  pain  now.  I  am  inexpressi- 
bly happy,"  replies  he,  with  a  smile  radiant,  though  languid. 
Forgetful  of  his  unfortunate  state,  he  raises  his  other  hand, 
and,  bringing  it  across  the  bed,  tries  to  place  it  on  Fiona's. 
But  the  action  is  too  much  for  him.  His  face  takes  a  leaden 
hue,  more  ghastly  than  its  former  pallor,  and,  in  spite  of  au 
heroic  effort  to  suppress  it,  a  deep  groan  escapes  him. 

"  Ah  I"  says  Mona,  springing  to  her  feet,  and  turning  to 
the  door,  as  though  to  summon  aid ;  but  he  stops  her  by  a 
gesture. 

''  No,  it  is  nothing.  It  will  be  over  in  a  moment,'  gasps 
he.  "  Give  me  some  brandy,  and  help  me  to  cheat  Death  of  his 
prey  for  a  little  time,  if  it  be  possible." 

Seeing  brandy  on  a  table  near,  she  pours  a  little  into  a  glass 
with  a  shaking  hand,  and,  passing  her  arm  beneath  his  neck, 
holds  it  to  his  parched  lips. 

It  revives  him  somewhat.  And  presently  the  intenser  pallor 
dies  away,  and  speech  returns  to  him. 

"  Do  not  call  for  assistance,"  he  whispers,  imploringly. 
"  They  can  do  me  no  good.  Stay  with  me.  Do  not  forsake 
me.     Swear  you  will  remain  with  me  to — to  the  end." 

"  I  promise  you  faithfully,"  says  Mona. 

"  It  is  too  much  to  ask,  but  I  dread  being  alone,"  he  goes 
on,  with  a  quick  shudder  of  fear  and  repulsion.  "  It  is  a  dark 
and  terrible  journey  to  take,  with  no  one  near  who  loves  one, 
with  no  one  to  feel  a  single  regret  when  one  has  departed." 

"/shall  feel  regret,"  says  Mona,  brokenly,  the  tears  run 
ning  down  her  cheeks. 

"Give  me  your  hand  again,"  says  Rodney,  after  a  pause; 
and  when  she  gives  it  to  him  he  says,  "  Do  you  know  this  is 
the  nearest  approach  to  real  happiness  I  have  ever  known  in 
all  my  careless,  useless  life?  What  is  it  Shakspearo  says 
about  the  folly  of  loving  '  a  bright  particular  star'  ?  I  always 
think  of  you  when  that  line  comes  to  my  mind.  You  are  tho 
star;  mine  is  the  folly." 

He  smiles  again,  but  Mona  is  too  sad  to  smile  in  return. 

*'  How  did  it  happen  ?"  she  asks,  presently. 

"  I  don't  know  myself.  I  wandered  Iti  a  desultory  fashion 
through  the  wood  on  leaving  you,  not  caring  to  return  home 


804  MRS.  GEOFFREY. 

just  tlj«n,  and  I  was  thinking  of — of  you,  of  course — when 
I  stumbled  against  something  (they  tell  me  it  was  a  gnarled 
root  that  had  thrust  itself  above  ground),  and  then  there  was 
a  report,  and  a  sharp  pang ;  and  that  was  all.  I  remember 
nothing.  The  gamekeeper  found  me  a  few  minutes  later,  and 
had  me  brought  here." 

"  You  are  talking  too  much,"  says  Mona,  nervously. 

"  I  may  as  well  talk  while  I  can :  soon  you  will  not  be  able 
to  hear  me,  when  the  grass  is  growing  over  me,"  replies  he, 
recklessly.  "  It  was  hardly  worth  my  while  to  deliver  you  up 
that  will,  was  it  ?  Is  not  Fate  ironical  ?  Now  it  is  all  as  it 
was  before  I  came  upon  the  scene,  and  Nicholas  has  the  title 
without  dispute.  I  wish  we  had  been  better  friends, — he  at 
least  was  civil  to  me, — but  I  was  reared  with  hatred  in  my 
heart  towards  all  the  Rodneys ;  I  was  taught  to  despise  and 
fear  them  as  my  natural  enemies,  from  my  cradle." 

Then,  after  a  pause,  "  Where  will  they  bury  me?"  he  asks, 
suddenly.  ''  Do  you  think  they  will  put  me  in  the  family 
vault  ?"     He  seems  to  feel  some  anxiety  on  this  point. 

"  Whatever  you  wish  shall  be  done,"  says  Mona,  earnestly, 
knowing  she  can  induce  Nicholas  to  accede  to  any  request  of 
hers. 

"  Are  you  sure  ?"  asks  he,  his  face  brightening.  "  Re- 
member how  they  have  drawn  back  from  me.  I  was  their 
own  first-cousin, — the  son  of  their  father's  brother, — yet  they 
treated  me  as  the  veriest  outcast." 

Then  Mona  says,  in  a  trembling  voice  and  rather  discon- 
nectedly, because  of  her  emotion,  "  Be  quite  sure  you  shall 
be — buried — where  all  the  other  baronets  of  Rodney  lie  at 
rest." 

"  Thank  you,"  murmurs  he,  gratefully.  There  is  evidently 
comfort  in  the  thought.  Then  after  a  moment  or  two  he  goes 
on  again,  as  though  following  out  a  pleasant  idea :  "  Some  day, 
perhaps,  that  vault  will  hold  you  too ;  and  there  at  least  we 
shall  meet  again,  and  be  side  by  side." 

•'  I  wish  you  would  not  talk  of  being  buried,"  says  Mona, 
with  a  sob.  "  There  is  no  comfort  in  the  tomb :  there  our 
dust  may  mingle,  but  in  heaven  our  souls  shall  meet,  I  trust, 
— I  hope." 

"  Heaven,"  repeats  he,  with  a  sigh.  "  I  have  forgotten  to 
think  of  heaven." 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  305 

"  Think  of  it  now,  Paul, — now  before  it  is  too  late," 
entreats  she,  piteonsly.  ,"  Try  to  pray :  there  is  always 
mercy." 

"  Fray  for  me  I"  says  he,  in  a  low  tone,  pressing  her  hand. 
So  on  her  knees,  in  a  subdued  voice,  sad  but  earnest,  she  re- 
peats what  prayers  she  can  remember  out  of  the  grand  Service 
that  belongs  to  us.  One  or  two  sentences  from  the  Litany 
come  to  her ;  and  then  some  words  rise  from  her  own  heai't, 
and  she  puts  up  a  passionate  supplication  to  heaven  that  the 
passing  soul  beside  her,  however  erring,  may  reach  some  haven 
where  rest  remaineth  1 

Some  time  elapses  before  he  speaks  again,  and  Mona  is 
almost  hoping  he  may  have  fallen  into  a  quiet  slumber,  when 
he  opens  his  eyes  and  says,  regretfully, — 

"  What  a  different  life  mine  might  have  been  had  I  known 
you  earlier  I"  Then,  with  a  faint  flush,  that  vanishes  almost 
as  it  comes,  as  though  without  power  to  stay,  he  says,  "  Did 
your  husband  object  to  your  coming  here  ?" 

"Geofirey?  Oh,  no.  It  was  he  who  brought  me.  He 
badft  me  hasten  lest  you  should  even  imagine  me  careless 
about  coming.  And — and — he  desired  me  say  how  he  regrets 
the  harsh  words  he  uttered  and  the  harsher  thoughts  he  may 
have  entertained  towards  you.  Forgive  him,  I  implore  you, 
and  die  in  peace  with  him  and  all  men." 

"  Forgive  him  !"  says  Rodney.  "  Surely,  however  unkind 
the  thoughts  he  may  have  cherished  for  me,  I  must  forget  and 
forgive  them  now,  seeing  all  he  has  done  for  me.  Has  he  not 
made  smooth  my  last  hours  ?  Has  he  not  lent  me  you  ?  Tell 
him  I  bear  him  no  ill  will." 

"  I  will  tell  him,"  says  Mona. 

He  is  silent  for  a  full  minute ;  then  he  says, — 

"  I  have  given  a  paper  to  Dr.  Bland  for  you :  it  will  explain 
what  I  wish.  And,  Mona,  there  are  some  papers  in  my  room : 
will  you  see  to  them  for  me  and  have  them  burned  ?" 

"  I  will  burn  them  with  my  own  hands,"  says  Mona. 

"  How  comforting  you  are  ! — how  you  understand,"  he  says, 
with  a  quick  sigh.  "  There  is  something  else :  that  fellow 
Ridgway,  who  opened  the  window  for  me,  he  must  be  seen 
to.  Let  him  have  the  money  mentioned  in  the  paper,  and 
Bend  him  to  my  mother :  she  will  look  after  him  for  my  sake. 
My  poor  mother !"  he  draws  his  breath  quickly, 
u  26* 


306  MRS.  OEOFFRET. 

"  Shall  I  write  to  her  ?"  asks  Mona,  gt  .tly.  "  Say  what 
you  wish  done." 

'*  It  would  be  kind  of  you,"  says  he,  gratefully.  "  She 
will  want  to  know  all,  and  you  will  do  it  more  tenderly  than 
the  others.  Do  not  dwell  upon  my  sins ;  and  say  I  died — 
happy.  Let  her  too  have  a  copy  of  the  paper  Dr.  Bland  haa 
now." 

"  I  shall  remember,"  says  Mona,  not  knowing  what  the 
paper  contains.  "  And  who  am  I,  that  I  should  dwell  upon 
the  sins  of  another  ?  Are  you  tired,  Paul  ?  How  fearfully 
pale  you  are  looking  1" 

He  is  evidently  quite  exhausted.  His  brow  is  moist,  his 
eyes  are  sunken,  his  lips  more  pallid,  more  death-like  than 
they  were  before.  In  little  painful  gasps  his  breath  comes 
fitfully.  Then  all  at  once  it  occurs  to  Mona  that  though  he 
is  looking  at  her  he  does  not  see  her.  His  mind  has  wan- 
dered far  away  to  those  earlier  days  when  England  was  un- 
known and  when  the  free  life  of  the  colony  was  all  he  desired. 

As  Mona  gazes  at  him  half  fearfully,  he  raises  himself 
suddenly  on  his  elbow,  and  says,  in  a  tone  far  stronger  than 
he  has  yet  used, — 

"  How  brilliant  the  moonlight  is  to-night !  See — watch" 
— eagerly — "  how  the  shadows  chase  each  other  down  the 
Ranger's  Hill  1" 

Mona  looks  up  startled.  The  faint  rays  of  the  new-born 
moon  are  indeed  rushing  through  the  casement,  and  are  fling- 
ing themselves  languidly  upon  the  opposite  wall,  but  they  are 
pale  and  wan,  as  moonlight  is  in  its  infancy,  and  anything  but 
brilliant.  Besides,  Rodney's  eyes  are  turned  not  on  them,  but 
on  the  door  that  can  be  seen  just  over  Mona's  head,  where  no 
beams  disport  themselves,  however  weakly. 

"  Lie  down  :  you  will  hurt  yourself  again,"  she  says,  trying 
gently  to  induce  him  to  return  to  his  former  recumbent  posi- 
tion ;  but  he  resists  her. 

"Who  has  taken  my  orders  about  the  sheep?"  he  says,  la 
a  loud  voice,  and  in  an  imperious  tone,  his  eyes  growing 
bright  but  uncertain.  "  Tell  Grainger  to  see  to  it.  My 
father  spoke  about  it  again  only  yesterday.  The  upper  pas- 
tures are  fresher — greener " 

His  voice  breaks :  with  a  groan  he  sinks  back  again  upon 
his  pillow. 


MRS.   GEOFFREY.  307 

"  Mona,  are  you  still  there  ?"  he  says,  with  a  return  to  oon- 
sciousness :  "  did  I  dream,  or  did  my  father  speak  to  me  ? 
How  the  night  comes  on  !"  He  sighs  wearily.  "  I  am  so 
tired, — so  worn  out :  if  I  could  only  sleep  I"  he  murmurs, 
faintly. 

Alas !  how  soon  will  fall  upon  him  that  eternal  sleep  from 
which  no  man  waketh  I 

Hia  breath  grows  fainter^  his  eyelids  close. 

Some  one  comes  in  with  a  lamp,  and  places  it  on  a  distant 
table,  where  its  rays  cannot  distress  the  dying  man. 

Dr.  Bland,  coming  into  the  room,  goes  up  to  the  bedside  and 
feels  his  pulse,  and  tries  to  put  something  between  his  lips, 
but  he  refuses  to  take  anything. 

"  It  will  strengthen  you,"  he  says,  persuasively. 

"  No,  it  is  of  no  use :  it  only  wearies  me.  My  best  medi- 
cine, my  only  medicine,  is  here,"  returns  Paul,  feebly  pressing 
Mona's  hand.  He  is  answering  the  doctor,  but  he  does  not 
look  at  him.     As  he  speaks,  his  gaze  is  riveted  upon  Mona. 

Dr.  Bland,  putting  down  the  glass,  forbears  to  torment  him 
further,  and  moves  away ;  Geoffrey,  who  has  also  come  in, 
takes  his  place.  Bending  over  the  dying  man,  he  touches 
him  lightly  on  the  shoulder. 

Paul  turns  his  head,  and  as  he  sees  Geoffrey  a  quick  spasm 
that  betrays  fear  crosses  his  face. 

"  Do  not  take  her  away  yet, — not  yet,"  he  says,  in  a  faint 
whisper. 

"  No,  no.  She  will  stay,"  says  Geoffrey,  hurriedly :  "  I 
only  want  to  tell  you,  my  dear  fellow,  how  grieved  I  am  for 
you,  and  how  gladly  I  would  undo  many  things — if  I  could." 

The  other  smiles  faintly.  He  is  evidently  glad  because  of 
Geoffrey's  words,  but  speech  is  now  very  nearly  impossible  to 
him.  His  attempt  to  rise,  to  point  out  the  imaginary  moon- 
light to  3Iona,  has  greatly  wasted  his  small  remaining  stock  of 
life,  and  now  but  a  thin  partition,  frail  and  broken,  lies  between 
him  and  that  inexorable  Rubicon  we  all  must  one  day  pass. 

Then  he  turns  his  head  away  again  to  let  his  eyes  rest  on 
Mona,  as  though  nowhere  else  can  peace  or  comfort  be  found. 

Geoffrey,  moving  to  one  side,  stands  where  he  can  no  longer 
be  seen,  feeling  instinctively  that  the  ebbing  life  before  him 
finds  its  sole  consolation  in  the  thought  of  Mona.     She  is  all 


308  MRS.  QEOFFREY. 

he  desires.  From  her  he  gains  courage  to  face  the  coming 
awful  moment,  when  he  shall  have  to  clasp  the  hand  of  Death 
and  go  forth  with  him  to  meet  the  great  unknown. 

Presently  he  closes  his  fingers  upon  hers,  and,  looking  up, 
she  sees  his  lips  are  moving,  though  no  sound  escapes  them. 
Leaning  over  him,  she  bends  her  face  to  his  and  whispers 
softly, — 

"  What  is  it?"- 

"  It  is  nearly  over,"  he  gasps,  painfully.  "  Say  good-by  to 
me.  Do  not  quite  forget  me, — not  utterly.  Give  me  some 
small  place  in  your  memory,  though — so  unworthy." 

"  I  shall  not  forget ;  I  shall  always  remember,"  returns  she, 
the  tears  running  down  her  cheeks  ;  and  then,  through  divine 
pity,  and  perhaps  because  GeoiFrey  is  here  to  see  her,  she 
stoops  and  lays  her  lips  upon  his  forehead. 

Never  afterwards  will  she  forget  the  glance  of  gratitude 
that  meets  hers,  and  that  lights  up  all  his  face,  even  his  dim 
eyes,  as  she  grants  him  this  gentle  pitiful  caress. 

"  Pray  for  me,"  he  says. 

And  then  she  falls  upon  her  knees  again,  and  Geoffrey  in 
the  background,  though  unseen,  kneels  too ;  and  Mona,  in  a 
broken  voice,  because  she  is  crying  very  bitterly  now,  whispers 
some  words  of  comfbrt  for  the  dying. 

The  minutes  go  by  slowly,  slowly  ;  a  clock  from  some  dis- 
tant steeple  chimes  the  hour.  The  soft  pattering  of  rain  upon 
the  walk  outside,  and  now  upon  the  window-pane,  is  all  the 
sound  that  can  be  heard. 

In  the  death-chamber  silence  reigns.  No  one  moves  ;  their 
very  breathing  seems  hushed.  Paul  Rodney's  eyes  are  closed. 
No  faintest  movement  disturbs  the  slumber  into  which  he 
eeems  to  have  fallen. 

Thus  half  an  hour  goes  by.  Then  Geoffrey,  growing  un- 
easy, raises  his  head  and  looks  at  Mona.  From  where  he  sita 
the  bed  is  hidden  from  him,  but  he  can  see  that  she  is  still 
kneeling  beside  it,  her  hand  in  Rodney's,  her  face  hidden  in 
the  bedclothes. 

The  doctor  at  this  instant  returns  to  the  room,  and,  going 
on  tiptoe  (as  though  fearful  of  disturbing  the  sleeper)  to  where 
Mona  is  kneeling,  looks  anxiously  at  Rodney.  But,  alas  I  no 
sound  of  earth  will  evermore  disturb  the  slumber  of  the  quiet 
^gure  upon  which  he  gazes. 


MRS.  OEOFFREY.  309 

The  doctor,  after  a  short  examination  of  the  features  (that 
are  even  now  turning  to  marble),  knits  bis  brows,  and,  going 
over  to  Geoffrey,  whispers  something  into  his  ear  while  pointing 
to  Mona. 

"  At  once,"  he  says,  with  emphasis. 

Geoffrey  starts.  He  walks  quickly  up  to  Mona,  and,  stoop- 
ing over  her,  very  gently  loosens  her  hand  from  the  other 
hand  she  is  holding.  Passing  his  arm  round  her  neck,  he 
turns  her  face  deliberately  in  his  own  direction — as  though  to 
keep  her  eyes  from  resting  on  the  bed — and  lays  it  upon  his 
own  breast. 

"  Come,"  he  says,  gently. 

"  Oh,  not  yet  1"  entreats  faithful  Mona,  in  a  miserable  tone ; 
"  not  yet.  Remember  what  I  said.  I  promised  to  remain 
with  him  until  the  very  end." 

"  You  have  kept  your  promise,"  returns  he,  solemnly,  press- 
ing her  face  still  closer  against  his  chest. 

A  strong  shudder  runs  through  her  frame ;  she  grows  a 
little  heavier  in  his  embrace.  Seeing  she  has  fainted,  he  lifts 
her  in  his  arms  and  carries  her  out  of  the  room. 

Later  on,  when  they  open  the  paper  that  had  been  given  by 
the  dead  man  into  the  keeping  of  Dr.  Bland,  and  which 
proves  to  be  his  will,  duly  signed  and  witnessed  by  the  game- 
keeper and  his  son,  they  find  he  has  left  to  Mona  all  of  which 
he  died  possessed  It  amounts  to  about  two  thousand  a  year ; 
of  which  one  thousand  is  to  come  to  her  at  once,  the  other  on 
the  death  of  his  mother. 

To  Ridgway,  the  under-gardener,  he  willed  three  hundred 
pounds,  "  as  some  small  compensation  for  the  evil  done  to 
him,"  so  runs  the  document,  written  in  a  distinct  but  trem- 
bling hand.  And  then  follow  one  or  two  bequests  to  those 
friends  he  had  left  in  Australia,  and  some  to  the  few  from 
whom  he  had  received  kindness  in  colder  England. 

N")  one  is  forgotten  by  him ;  though  once  "  he  is  dead  and 
laid  in  grave"  he  is  forgotten  by  most. 

They  put  him  to  rest  in  the  family  vault,  where  his  ances- 
tors lie  side  by  side, — as  Mona  promised  him, — and  write  Sir 
Paul  Rodney  over  his  head,  giving  him  in  death  the  title  they 
would  gladly  have  withheld  from  him  in  life. 


310  MRS.  OEOFFRET. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

HOW  MONA   1<EPENDS   THE   DEAD — AND   UOW  LADY  LILIA/t 
EATON   WAXES   ELOQUENT. 

As  hour  follows  upon  hour,  even  the  most  poignant  griefs 
grow  less,  Nature  sooner  or  later  will  come  to  the  rescue, 
and  hope  "  springing  eternal"  will  cast  despair  into  the  back- 
ground. Paul  Rodney's  death  being  rather  more  a  shock 
than  a  grief  to  the  inmates  of  the  Towers,  the  remembrance 
of  it  fades  from  their  minds  with  a  rapidity  that  astonishes 
even  themselves. 

Mona,  as  is  only  natural,  clings  longest  to  the  memory  of 
that  terrible  day  when  grief  and  gladness  had  been  so  closely 
blended,  when  tragedy  followed  so  fast  upon  their  comedy 
that  laughter  and  tears  embraced  each  other  and  gloom  over- 
powered their  sunshine.  Yet  even  she  brightens  up,  and  is 
quite  herself  again  by  the  time  the  "  merry  month  of  May" 
comes  showering  down  upon  them  all  its  wealth  of  blossom, 
and  music  of  glad  birds,  as  they  chant  in  glade  and  dell. 

Yet  in  her  heart  the  erring  cousin  is  not  altogether  forgot- 
ten. There  are  moments  in  every  day  when  she  recalls  him 
to  her  mind,  nor  does  she  ever  pass  the  huge  tomb  where  his 
body  lies  at  rest,  awaiting  the  last  trump,  without  a  kindly 
thought  of  him  and  a  hope  that  his  soul  is  safe  in  heaven. 

The  county  has  behaved  on  the  occasion  somewhat  disgrace- 
fully, and  has  declared  itself  to  a  man — without  any  reserva- 
tion— unfeignedly  glad  of  the  chance  that  has  restored  Sir 
Nicholas  to  his  own  again.  Perhaps  what  they  just  do  not  say 
is  that  they  are  delighted  Paul  Rodney  shot  himself:  this  might 
Bound  brutal,  and  one  must  draw  the  line  somewhere,  and  a 
last  remnant  of  decency  compels  them  to  draw  it  at  this  point. 
But  it  is  the  thinnest  line  possible,  and  easily  stepped  across. 

Even  the  duchess  refuses  to  see  anything  regrettable  in  the 
whole  affair,  and  expresses  herself  to  Lady  Rodney  on  the 
subject  of  her  nephew's  death  in  terms  that  might  almost  be 
called  congratulatory.  She  has  been  listened  to  in  silence,  of 
course,  and  with  a  deprecating  shake  of  the  head,  but  after- 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  311 

wards  Lady  Rodney  is  unable  to  declare  to  herself  that  the 
duchess  has  taken  anything  but  a  sound  common-sense  view 
of  the  matter. 

In  her  own  heart,  and  in  the  secret  recesses  of  her  cham- 
ber, Nicholas's  mother  blesses  Mona  for  having  returned  the 
pistol  that  February  afternoon  to  the  troublesome  young  man 
(who  is  so  well  out  of  the  way),  and  has  entertained  a  positive 
affection  for  the  roots  of  trees  ever  since  the  sad  (?)  accident. 

But  these  unholy  thoughts  belong  to  her  own  breast  alone, 
and  are  hidden  carefully  out  of  sight,  lest  any  should  guess  at 
them. 

The  duke,  calling  at  the  Towers  about  a  month  after  Paul 
Rodney's  death,  so  far  forgets  himself  as  to  say  to  Mona.  who 
is  present, — 

"Awful  luck,  your  getting  rid  of  that  cousin,  eh?  Such 
an  uncomfortable  fellow,  don't  you  know,  and  so  uncommonly 
in  the  way." 

At  which  Mona  had  turned  her  eyes  upon  him. — eyes  that 
literally  flashed  rebuke,  and  had  told  him  slowly,  but  with 
meaning,  that  he  should  remember  the  dead  could  not  defend 
themselves,  and  that  she,  for  one,  had  not  as  yet  learned  to 
regard  the  death  of  any  man  as  "  awful  luck." 

"  Give  you  my  word,"  said  the  duke  afterwards  to  a  select 
assembly,  "  when  she  looked  at  me  then  out  of  her  wonderful 
Irish  eyes,  and  said  all  that  with  her  musical  brogue,  I  never 
felt  so  small  in  all  my  life.  Reg'lar  went  into  my  boots,  you 
know,  and  stayed  there.  But  she  is,  without  chaff  or  that, 
she  really  is  the  most  charming  woman  1  ever  met." 

Lady  Lilias  Eaton,  too,  had  been  rather  fine  upon  the 
Rodney  ups  and  downs.  The  history  of  the  Australian's 
devotion  had  been  as  a  revelation  to  her.  She  had  actually 
come  out  of  herself,  and  had  neglected  the  Ancient  Britons 
for  a  full  day  and  a  half, — on  the  very  highest  authority, — 
merely  to  talk  about  Paul  Rodney.  Surely  "  nothing  in  his 
life  became  him  like  the  leaving  it :"  of  all  those  who  would 
scarcely  speak  to  him  wheu  living,  not  one  but  converses  of 
him  familiarly  now  he  Is  dead. 

"  So  very  strange,  so  almost  unparalleled  in  this  degenerate 
age,"  says  Lady  Lilias  to  Lady  Rodney,  speaking  of  the  will 
episode  generally,  and  with  as  near  an  approach  to  enthusiasm 
as  it  is  possible  to  her  to  produce.     "  A  secret  panel !     How 


312  MRS.  OEOFFRET. 

interesting!  "We  lack  that  at  Anadale.  Pray,  dear  Lady 
Rodney,  do  tell  ino  all  about  it  again." 

Whereupon  Lady  Rodney,  to  •whom  the  whole  matter  is 
"  cakes  and  ale,"  does  tell  it  all  over  again,  relating  every  inci- 
dent, from  the  removal  of  the  will  from  the  library  by  Paul, 
to  his  surrender  of  it  next  day  to  Mona. 

Lady  Lilias  is  delighted. 

"  It  is  quite  perfect,  the  whole  story.  It  reminds  me  of 
the  ballads  about  King  Arthur's  Knights  of  the  Round 
Table." 

"  Which  ?  the  stealing  of  the  will  ?"  asks  Lady  Rodney, 
innocently.  She  knows  nothing  about  the  Ancient  Britons, 
and  abhors  the  very  sound  of  their  name,  regarding  them  aa 
indecent,  immoral  people,  who  went  about  insufficiently  clothed. 
Of  King  Arthur  and  his  round  knights  (as  she  wiU  call  them, 
having  once  got  so  hopelessly  mixed  on  the  subject  as  to  dis- 
allow of  her  ever  being  disentangled  again)  she  knows  even 
less,  beyond  what  Tennyson  has  taught  her. 

She  understands,  indeed,  that  Sir  Launcelot  was  a  very 
naughty  young  man,  who  should  not  have  been  received  in 
respectable  houses, — especially  as  he  had  no  money  to  speak 
of, — and  that  Sir  Modred  and  Sir  Gawain,  had  they  lived  in 
this  critical  age,  would  undoubtedly  have  been  pronounced 
bad  form  and  expelled  from  decent  clubs.  And,  knowing  this 
much,  she  takes  it  for  granted  that  the  stealing  of  a  will  or 
more  would  be  quite  in  their  line :  hence  her  speech. 

"  Dear  Lady  Rodney,  no,"  cries  the  horrified  Esthetic, 
rather  losing  faith  in  her  hostess.  "  I  mean  about  his  resign- 
ing lands  and  heritage,  position,  title,  everything — all  that  a 
man  holds  most  dear,  for  a  mere  sentiment.  And  then  it  was 
so  nice  of  him  to  shoot  himself,  and  leave  her  all  his  money. 
Surely  you  must  see  that  ?" 

She  has  actually  forgotten  to  pose,  and  is  leaning  fonvard 
quite  comfortably  with  her  arms  crossed  on  her  knees.  I  am 
convinced  she  has  not  been  so  happy  for  years. 

Lady  Rodney  is  somewhat  shocked  at  this  view  of  the  case. 

"  You  must  understand,"  she  says,  emphatically,  "  he  did 
not  shoot  himself  purposely.  It  was  an  accident, — a  pure 
accident." 

"  Well,  yes,  so  they  say,"  returns  her  visitor,  airily,  who  is 
plainly  determined  not  to  be  done  out  of  a  good  thing,  and 


MRS.  OEOFFREY.  313 

insists  on  bringing  in  deliberate  suicide  as  a  fit  ending  to  this 
enthralling  tale.  "  And  of  course  it  is  very  nice  of  every 
one,  and  quite  right  too.  But  there  is  no  doubt,  I  think,  that 
he  loved  her.  You  will  pardon  me,  Lady  Rodney,  but  I  ana 
convinced  he  adored  Mrs.  Geoffrey." 

"  Well,  he  may  have,"  admits  Lady  Rodney,  reluctantly, 
who  has  grown  strangely  jealous  of  Mona's  reputation  of  late. 
As  she  speaks  she  colors  faintly.  "  I  must  beg  you  to  believe," 
she  says,  "  that  Mona  up  to  the  very  last  wa3  utterly  unaware 
of  his  infatuation." 

"  Why,  of  course ;  of  course.  One  can  see  that  at  a 
glance.  And  if  it  were  otherwise  the  whole  story  would  be 
ruined, — would  instantly  become  tame  and  commonplace, — 
would  be,  indeed,"  says  Lady  Lilias,  with  a  massive  wave  of 
her  large  white  hand,  "  I  regret  to  say,  an  occurrence  of  every- 
day life.  The  singular  beauty  that  now  attaches  to  it  would 
disappear.  It  is  the  fact  that  his  passion  was  unrequited,  un 
acknowledged,  and  that  yet  he  was  content  to  sacrifice  his  life 
for  it,  that  creates  its  charm  !" 

"  Yes,  I  dare  say,"  says  Lady  Rodney,  who  is  now  wonder- 
ing when  this  high-flown  visitor  will  take  her  departure. 

"  It  is  like  a  romaunt  of  the  earlier  and  purer  days  of 
chivalry,"  goes  on  Lady  Lilias,  in  her  most  prosy  tone. 
"  Alas  !  where  are  they  now  ?"  She  pauses  for  an  answer  to 
this  difficult  question,  being  in  her  very  loftiest  strain  of  high 
art  depression. 

"  Eh  ?"  says  Lady  Rodney,  rousing  from  a  day-dream.  "  I 
don't  know,  I'm  sure ;  but  I'll  see  about  it ;  I'll  make  in- 
quiries." 

In  thought  she  had  been  miles  away,  and  has  just  come 
back  to  the  present  with  a  start  of  guilt  at  her  own  neglect  of 
her  guest.  She  honestly  believes,  in  her  confusion,  that  Lady 
Lilias  has  been  making  some  inquiries  about  the  secret  panel, 
and  therefore  makes  her  extraordinary  remark  with  the  utm  *st 
honhomie  and  cheerfulness. 

It  is  quite  too  much  for  the  ^Esthetic. 

*'  I  don't  think  you  can  make  an  inquiry  about  the  bygone 
days  of  chivalry,"  she  says,  somewhat  stiffly,  and,  having 
shaken  the  hand  of  her  bewildered  friend,  and  pecked  gently 
at  her  cheek,  she  sails  out  of  the  room,  disheartened,  and 
wounded  in  spirit. 

o  27 


314  MRS.  GEOFFREY. 


CHAPTER   XXXVII. 

HOW  MONA  REFUSES  A  GALLANT  OFFER  —  AND  UOW 
NOLLY  VIEWS  LIFE  THROUGH  THE  BRANCHES  OF  A 
PORTUGAL    LAUREL. 

Once  again  they  are  all  at  the  Towers.  Doatie  and  her 
brother — who  had  returned  to  their  own  home  during  March 
hnd  April — have  now  come  back  again  to  Lady  Rodney,  who 
is  ever  anxious  to  welcome  these  two  with  open  arms.  It  is  to 
be  a  last  visit  from  Doatie  as  a  "  graceful  maiden  with  a 
gentle  brow,"  as  Mary  Howitt  would  certainly  have  called 
her,  next  month  having  been  decided  upon  as  the  most  fitting 
for  transforming  Dorothy  Darling  into  Dorothy  Lady  Rod- 
ney. In  this  thought  both  she  and  her  betrothed  are  per- 
fectly happy. 

Mona  and  Geoffrey  have  gone  to  their  own  pretty  house, 
and  are  happy  there  as  they  deserve  to  be, — Mona  proving  the 
most  charming  of  chatelaines,  so  naive,  so  gracious,  so  utterly 
unaffected,  as  to  win  all  hearts.  Indeed,  there  is  not  in  the 
county  a  more  popular  woman  than  Mrs.  Geoffrey  Rodney. 

Yet  much  of  their  time  is  spent  at  the  Towers.  Lady 
Rodney  can  hardly  do  without  Mona  now,  the  pretty  sym- 
pathetic manner  and  comprehensive  glance  and  gentle  smile 
having  worked  their  way  at  last,  and  found  a  home  in  the 
heart  that  had  so  determinedly  hardened  itself  against  her. 

As  to  Jack  and  Violet,  they  have  grown  of  late  into  a  sort 
of  moral  puzzle  that  nobody  can  solve.  For  months  they 
have  been  gazing  at  and  talking  to  each  other,  have  appar- 
ently seen  nothing  but  each  other,  no  matter  how  many  others 
may  be  present ;  and  yet  it  is  evident  that  no  understanding 
exists  between  them,  and  that  no  formal  engagement  has 
been  arrived  at. 

"  Why  on  earth,"  says  Nolly,  "  can't  they  tell  each  other, 
what  they  have  told  the  world  long  ago,  that  they  adore 
each  other?     It  is  so  jolly  senseless,  don't  you  know?" 

"  I  wonder  when  you  will  adore  any  one,  Nolly,"  saya 
Geoflfrey,  idly. 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  315 

"  I  do  adore  somebody,"  returns  that  ingenuous  youth, 
staring  openly  at  Mona,  who  is  taking  up  the  last  stitch 
dropped  by  Lady  Rodney  in  the  little  scarlet  silk  sock  she  is 
knitting  for  Phyllis  Carrington's  boy. 

"That's  me,"  says  Mona,  glancing  at  him  archly  from 
under  her  long  lashes. 

"  Now.  how  did  you  find  it  out  ?  who  told  you  ?"  asks  Mr. 
Dirling,  with  careful  surprise.  "  Yes,  it  is  true ;  I  don't 
Biek  to  deny  it.  The  hopeless  passion  I  entertain  for  you  is 
dearer  to  me  than  any  other  more  successful  affection  can  ever 
be.  I  worship  a  dream, — an  idea, — and  am  happier  in  my 
maddest  moments  than  others  when  most  sane." 

"  Bless  me,  Nolly,  you  are  not  going  to  be  ill,  are  you  ?"  say* 
Geoffrey.     "  Such  a  burst  of  eloquence  is  rare." 

"There  are  times,  I  confess,"  goes  on  Mr.  Darling,  dis- 
posing of  Geoffrey's  mundane  interruption  by  a  contemptu- 
ous wave  of  the  hand,  "  when  light  breaks  in  upon  me,  and  a 
joyful,  a  thrice-blessod  termination  to  my  dream  presents 
itself.  For  instance,  if  Geoffrey  could  only  be  brought  to  see 
things  as  they  are,  and  have  the  grace  to  quit  this  mortal 
globe  and  soar  to  worlds  unknown,  I  should  then  fling  myself 
at  your  feet,  and " 

"  Oh — well — don't,"  interrupts  Mrs.  Geoffrey,  hastily. 

"  Eh  !  you  don't  mean  to  say  that  after  all  my  devotion 
you  would  then  refuse  me  ?"  asks  Mr.  Darling,  with  some 
disgust. 

"  Yes,  you,  and  every  other  man,"  says  Mona,  smiling,  and 
raising  her  loving  eyes  to  her  husband. 

"  I  think,  sir,"after  that  you  may  consider  yourself  flat- 
tened," says  Geoffrey,  with  a  laugh. 

"I  shall  go  away,"  declares  Nolly;  "I  shall  go  abroad, — 
at  least  as  far  as  the  orchard ;"  then,  with  a  complete  change 
of  tone,  "  By  the  by,  Mrs.  Geoffrey,  will  you  come  for  a 
walk  ?     Do  :  the  day  is  '  heavenly  fair.'  " 

"  Well,  not  just  now,  I  think,"  says  Mona,  evasively. 

"  Why  not  ?"  persuasively :  "  it  will  do  you  a  world  of 
good." 

"  Perhaps  then  a  little  later  on  I  shall  go,"  returns  Mona, 
who,  like  all  her  countrywomen,  detests  giving  a  direct  an- 
swer, and  can  never  bring  herself  to  say  a  decided  "  no"  to 
any  one. 


316  MRS.  OEOFFREY. 

"  As  you  evidently  need  support,  I'll  go  with  you  as  far  as 
the  stables,"  says  Geoffrey,  compassionately,  and  together 
they  leave  the  room,  keeping  company  until  tliey  gain  the 
yard,  when  Geoffrey  turns  to  the  right  and  makes  for  the 
stables,  leaving  Nolly  to  wend  his  solitary  way  to  the  flowery 
orchard. 

It  is  an  hour  later.  Afternoon  draws  towards  evening,  yet 
one  scarcely  feels  the  change.  It  is  sultry,  drowsy,  warm,  and 
full  of  a  "  slow  luxurious  calm." 


"Earth  putteth  on  the  borrow'd  robes  of  heaven, 
And  sitteth  in  a  Sabbath  of  still  rest; 
And  silence  swells  into  a  dreamy  sound, 
That  sinks  again  to  silence. 

The  runnel  hath 
Its  tune  beneath  the  trees, 
And  through  tho  woodlands  swell 
The  tender  trembles  of  the  ringdove's  dole." 


The  Rodneys  are,  for  the  most  part,  in  the  library,  the 
room  dearest  to  them.  Mona  is  telling  Doatie's  fortune  on 
cards,  Geoffrey  and  Nicholas  are  discussing  the  merits  and 
demerits  of  a  new  mare.  Lady  llodney  is  still  struggling  with 
the  crimson  sock, — when  the  door  is  opened,  and  Nolly  en- 
tering adds  himself  to  the  group. 

His  face  is  slightly  flushed,  his  whole  manner  full  of  im- 
portance. He  advances  to  where  the  two  girls  are  sitting,  and 
stops  opposite  Mona. 

"  I'll  tell  you  all  something,"  he  says,  "  though  I  hardly 
think  I  ought,  if  you  will  swear  not  to  betray  me." 

This  speech  has  the  effect  of  electricity.  They  all  start ; 
with  one  consent  they  give  the  desired  oath.  The  cards  fall  to 
the  ground,  the  fortune  forgotten  ;  the  mare  becomes  of  very 
secondary  importance ,  another  stitch  drops  in  the  fated  sock. 

"  They've  done  it  at  last,"  says  Mr.  Darling,  in  a  low,  eom- 
pres!3ed  voice.  "  It  is  an  accomplished  fact.  I  heard  'em 
myself  1" 

As  he  makes  this  last  extraordinary  remark  he  looks  over 
bis  left  shoulder,  as  though  fearful  of  being  overheard. 

"Who?"  "What?"  say  Mona  and  Dorothy,  in  one 
breath. 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  317 

■'  Why,  Jack  and  Violet,  of  course.  They've  had  it  out. 
They  are  engaged !" 

"  No  !"  says  Nicholas  ;  meaning,  "  How  very  delightful  I" 

"  And  you  heard  them  ?  Nolly,  explain  yourself,"  says  hia 
sister,  severely. 

"  I'm  going  to,"  says  Nolly,  "  if  you  will  just  give  me  time. 
'  Oh,  what  a  day  I've  been  havin',  and  how  dear  1'  You  know 
I  told  you  I  was  going  to  the  orchard  for  a  stroll  and  with  a 
view  to  profitable  meditation.  Well,  I  went.  At  the  upper 
end  of  the  garden  there  are,  as  you  know,  some  Portugal 
laurels,  from  which  one  can  get  a  splendid  survey  of  the 
country,  and  in  an  evil  moment  it  occurred  to  me  that  I 
should  like  to  climb  one  of  them  and  look  at  the  Chetwoode 
Hills.  I  had  never  got  higher  than  a  horse's  back  since  my 
boyhood,  and  visions  of  my  earlier  days,  when  I  was  young 
and  innocent,  overcame  me  at  that " 

"  Oh,  never  mind  your  young  and  innocent  days  :  we  nevei 
heard  of  them,"  says  Dorothy,  impatiently.  "  Do  get  on  to 
it." 

*'  I  did  get  on  to  it,  if  you  mean  the  laurel,"  saya  Nolly 
with  calm  dignity.  "  I  climbed  most  manfully,  and,  beyond 
slipping  all  down  the  trunk  of  the  tree  twice  and  severely 
barking  my  shins,  I  sustained  no  actual  injury." 

"  What  on  earth  is  a  shin  ?"  puts  in  Geoflfrey,  sotto  voce. 

"  Part  of  your  leg,  just  below  your  knee,"  returns  Mr.  Dai 
ling,  undaunted.  "  Well,  when  I  got  up  at  last,  I  found  a 
capital  place  to  sit  in,  with  a  good  branch  to  my  back,  and  I 
was  so  pleased  with  myself  and  my  exploit  that  I  really  think 
— the  day  is  warm,  you  know — I  fell  asleep.  At  least  I  can 
remember  nothing  until  voices  broke  upon  my  ear  right  below 
me. 

Here  Mona  and  Dorothy  grow  suddenly  deeply  interested, 
and  lean  forward. 

"  I  parted  the  leaves  of  the  laurel  with  cautious  hand  and 
looked  down.  At  my  very  feet  were  Jack  and  Violet,  and" — 
mysteriously — "  she  was  pinning  a  flower  into  his  coat  I" 

"  Is  that  all  ?"  says  Mona,  with  quick  contempt,  eeemg 
him  pause.  "  Why,  there  is  nothing  in  that  I  I  pinned  a 
flower  into  your  coat  only  yesterday." 

The  naivetd  of  this  speech  is  not  to  be  surpassed. 

Nolly  regards  her  mournfully. 
27* 


318  MRS.  OEOFFREY. 

"  I  think  you  needn't  be  unkinder  to  me  than  you  can 
help  I"  he  says,  reproachfully.  "  However,  to  continue. 
There's  a  way  of  doin<^  things,  you  know,  and  the  time  Violet 
took  to  arrange  that  flower  is  worthy  of  mention  ;  and  when 
at  last  it  was  settled  to  her  satisfaction,  Jack  suddenly  took 
her  hands  in  his,  just  like  this,  Mrs.  Geoffrey,"  going  on  his 
knees  before  Mona,  and  possessing  himself  of  both  her  hands, 
*'  and  pressed  them  against  his  heart,  like  this,  and  said 
he " 

Nolly  pauses. 

"  Oh,  Nolly,  what  ?"  says  Mona ;  "  do  tell  us."  She  fixea 
her  eyes  on  his. 

" '  What  darling  little  hands  you  have !' "  begins  Nolly, 
quite  innocently. 

"  Well,  really  !"  says  Mona,  mistaking  him.  She  moves 
back  with  a  heightened  color,  disengages  her  hands  from  hifi 
and  frowns  slightly. 

"  I  wasn't  alluding  to  your  hands  ;  though  I  might."  says 
Nolly,  pathetically.  "  I  was  only  going  to  tell  you  what  Jack 
said  to  Violet.  '  What  darling  little  hands  you  have  1'  he 
whispered,  with  the  very  silliest  expression  on  his  face  I  ever 
saw  in  my  life;  'the  prettiest  hands  in  the  world.  I  wish 
they  were  mine.'  '  Gracious  powers  !'  said  I  to  myself,  '  I'm 
in  for  it ;'  and  I  was  as  near  foiling  oiF  the  branch  of  the 
tree  right  into  their  arms  as  I  could  be.  The  shock  was  too 
great.  I  suppressed  a  groan  with  a  manful  determination  to 
*  suffer  and  be  strong,'  and " 

"  Never  mind  all  that,"  says  Doatie  :   "  what  did  she  say  ?" 

By  this  time  both  Nicholas  and  Geoffrey  are  quite  convulsed 
with  delight. 

"  Yes,  go  on,  Noll :  what  did  she  say  ?"  repeats  Geoffrey, 
the  most  generous  encouragement  in  his  tone.  They  have  all, 
with  a  determination  worthy  of  a  better  cause,  made  up  their 
minds  to  forget  that  they  are  listening  to  what  was  certainly 
never  meant  for  them  to  hear.  Or  perhaps  consideration  for 
Nolly  compels  them  to  keep  their  ears  open,  as  that  young  man 
is  so  overcome  by  the  thought  of  what  he  has  unwillingly 
gone  through,  and  the  weight  of  the  secret  that  is  so  disagree- 
ably his,  that  it  has  become  a  necessity  with  him  to  speak  or 
die  ;  but  I  believe  myself  it  is  more  curiosity  than  pity  prompts 
their  desire  for  information  on  the  subject  in  hand. 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  319 

"  I  didn't  listen,"  says  Nolly,  indignantly.  "  What  do  you 
take  me  for  ?  I  crammed  my  fingers  into  my  ears,  and  shut 
my  eyes  tight,  and  wished  with  all  my  heart  I  had  never  been 
born.  If  you  wish  very  hard  for  anything,  they  say  you  will 
get  it.  So  I  thought  if  I  threw  my  whole  soul  into  that  wish 
just  then  I  might  get  it,  and  find  presently  I  never  had  been 
born.  So  I  threw  in  my  whole  soul ;  but  it  didn't  come  ofi. 
I  was  as  lively  as  possible  after  ten  minutes'  hard  wishing 
Then  I  opened  my  eyes  again  and  looked, — simply  to  see  if  1 
oughtn't  to  look, — and  there  they  were  still ;  and  he  had  his 
arm  round  her,  and  her  head  was  on  his  shoulder,  and " 

"  Oh,  Nolly  !"  says  Dorothy,  hastily. 

"  Well,  it  wasn't  my  fault,  was  it  ?  /  had  nothing  to  do 
with  it.  She  hadn't  her  head  on  my  shoulder,  had  she  ?  and 
it  wasn't  my  arm  was  round  her,"  says  Mr.  Darling,  losing 
patience  a  little. 

"  I  don't  mean  that ;  but  how  could  you  look  ?" 

"  Well,  I  like  that !"  says  her  brother.  "  And  pray  what 
was  to  happen  if  I  didn't  ?  I  gave  'em  ten  minutes ;  quite 
sufficient  law,  I  think.  If  they  couldn't  get  it  over  in  that 
time,  they  must  have  forgotten  their  native  tongue.  Besides, 
I  wanted  to  get  down ;  the  forked  seat  in  the  laurel  was  not 
all  my  fancy  had  painted  it  in  the  beginning,  and  how  was  I 
to  know  when  they  were  gone  unless  I  looked  ?  Why,  other- 
wise I  might  be  there  now.  I  might  be  there  until  next 
week,"  winds  up  Mr.  Darling,  with  increasing  wrath. 

"  It  is  true,"  puts  in  Mona.  "  How  could  he  tell  when  the 
coast  was  clear  for  his  escape,  unless  he  took  a  little  peep  ?" 

"  Go  on,  Nolly,"  says  Nicholas. 

"  Well,  Violet  was  crying  (not  loudly,  you  know,  but  quite 
comfortably) :  so  then  I  thought  I  had  been  mistaken,  and 
that  probably  she  had  a  toothache,  or  a  headache,  or  some- 
thing, and  that  the  foregoing  speech  was  mere  spooning  ;  and 
I  rather  lost  faith  in  tlie  situation,  when  suddenly  he  said, 
« Why  do  you  cry  ?'  And  what  do  you  think  was  her  an- 
swer ?  '  Because  I  am  so  happy.'  Now,  fancy  any  one  cry- 
ing because  she  was  happy  1"  says  Mr.  Darling,  with  fine 
disgust.  "  I  always  laugh  when  I'm  happy.  And  I  think  it 
rather  a  poor  thing  to  dissolve  into  tears  because  a  man  aska 
you  to  marry  him  :  don't  you,  Mrs.  Geofi'rey  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,  I'm  sure.     I  have  never  thought  about  it. 


320  MRS.  GEOFFREY. 

Did  I  cry,  Geoffrey,  when "  hesitates  Mrs.  Geoffrey,  with 

a  laugh,  and  a  faint  sweet  blush. 

"  N — 0.  As  far  as  I  can  remember,"  says  Geoffrey,  thought- 
fully, pulling  his  moustache,  "  you  were  so  overcome  with  de- 
light at  the  unexpected  honor  I  did  you,  that " 

"  Oh,  I  dare  say,"  says  Nicholas,  ironically.  "  You  get 
out!" 

"  What  else  did  they  say,  Nolly  ?"  asks  Dorothy,  in  a 
wheedling  tone. 

"  If  they  could  only  hear  us  now  I"  murmurs  Geoffrey, 
addressing  no  one  in  particular. 

"  Go  on,  Nolly,"  says  Doatie. 

"  You  see,  I  was  so  filled  with  the  novelty  of  the  idea  that 
it  is  the  correct  thing  to  weep  when  seated  on  your  highest 
pinnacle  of  bliss,  that  I  forgot  to  put  my  fingers  in  my  ears 
again  for  a  moment,  so  I  heard  him  say,  '  Are  you  sure  you 
love  me  ?'  whereupon  she  said,  '  Are  you  quite  sure  you  love 
me  f  with  lots  of  emphasis.  That  finished  me  I  Did  you 
ever  hear  such  stuff  in  your  life?"  demands  Mr.  Darling,  feel- 
ing justly  incensed.  "  When  they  have  been  gazing  into  each 
other's  eyes  and  boring  us  all  to  death  with  their  sentimentality 
for  the  last  three  months,  they  coolly  turn  round  and  ask  each 
other  if  they  are  sure  they  are  in  love  1" 

"  Nolly,  you  have  no  romance  in  your  nature,"  says  Nich- 
olas, severely. 

"  No,  I  haven't,  if  that's  romance.  Of  course  there  waa 
nothing  for  it  but  to  shut  my  eyes  again  and  resign  myself  to 
my  fate.  I  wonder  I'm  not  dead,"  says  Nolly,  pathetically. 
**  I  never  put  in  such  a  time  in  my  life.  Well,  another  quarter 
of  an  hour  went  by,  and  then  I  cautiously  opened  my  eyes 
and  looked  again,  and — would  you  believe  it?" — indignantly, 
— "  there  they  were  still  1" 

"  It  is  my  opinion  that  you  looked  and  listened  all  the 
time ;  and  it  was  shamefully  mean  of  you,"  says  Dorothy. 

"  I  give  you  my  honor  I  didn't.  I  neither  saw  nor  heard 
but  what  I  tell  you.  Why,  if  I  had  listened  I  could  fill  a 
volume  with  their  nonsense.  Three-quarters  of  an  hour  it 
lasted.  How  a  fellow  can  take  forty-five  minutes  to  say, '  Will 
you  marry  me  ?'  passes  my  comprehension.  Whenever  1  am 
going  to  do  that  sort  of  thing,  which  of  course,"  looking  at 
Mona,  "  will  be  never  now,  on  account  of  what  you  said  to  me 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  321 

some  time  since, — but  if  ever  I  should  be  tempted,  I  shall  get 
it  over  in  twenty  seconds  precisely :  that  will  even  give  me 
time  to  take  her  hand  and  get  through  the  orthodox  embrace." 

"  But  perhaps  she  will  refuse  you,"  says  Mona,  demurely, 

"  No  such  luck.  But  look  here,  I  never  suffered  such  agonj 
as  I  did  in  that  laurel.  It's  the  last  tree  I'll  ever  climb.  I 
knew  if  I  got  down  they  would  never  forgive  me  to  their  dy- 
ing day,  and  as  I  was  I  felt  like  a  condemned  criminal.*" 

"  Or  like  the  '  sweet  little  cherub  that  sits  up  aloft '  ?  There 
is  something  cherubic  about  you,  do  you  know,  Nolly,  when 
one  comes  to  think  of  it.     But  finish  your  tale." 

"  There  isn't  much  more ;  but  yet  the  cream  of  the  joke 
remains,"  says  Nolly,  laughing  heartily.  "  They  seemed 
pretty  jolly  by  that  time,  and  he  was  speaking.  'I  was  afraid 
you  would  reftise  me,'  he  said,  in  an  imbecile  tone.  '  I  always 
thought  you  liked  Geoffrey  best.'  '  Geoffrey !'  said  Violet. 
(Oh,  Mrs.  Geoffrey,  if  you  could  have  heard  her  voice  1) 
'  How  could  you  think  so !  Geoffrey  is  all  very  well  in  his 
way,  and  of  course  I  like  him  very  much,  but  he  is  not  to  be 
compared  with  you.'  '  He  is  very  handsome,'  said  Jack,  fish- 
ing for  compliments  in  the  most  indecent  manner.  '  Hand- 
pome  !  Oh,  no,'  said  Violet.  (You  really  should  have  heard 
her,  Mrs.  Geoffrey!)  'I  don't  think  so.  Passably  good- 
looking,  I  allow,  but — not  like  you  V     Ha,  ha,  ha  I" 

"  Nolly,  you  are  inventing,"  says  Mrs.  Geoffrey,  sternly. 

"  No  ;  on  my  word,  no,"  says  Nolly,  choking  with  laughter, 
in  which  he  is  joined  by  all  but  Mona.  "  She  said  all  that, 
and  lots  more  1" 

"  Then  she  doesn't  know  what  she  is  talking  about,"  eaya 
Mrs.  Geoffrey,  indignantly.  "  The  idea  of  comparing  Geoffirey 
with  Jackl" 

At  this  the  laughter  grows  universal,  Geoffrey  and  Nicholas 
positively  distinguishing  themselves  in  this  line,  when  just  at 
the  very  height  of  their  mirth  the  door  opens,  and  Violet  ea- 
ters, followed  by  Captain  Rodney. 


322  MRS.  GEOFFREY. 


CHAPTER   XXXVIII. 

now  NOLLT  DECLINES  TO  REPEAT  HIS  STORY — HOW  JACK 
RODNEY  TELLS  ONE  INSTEAD — AND  HOW  THEY  ALL 
SHOW  THEIR  SURPRISE  ABOUT  WHAT  THEY  KNEW 
BEFORE. 

As  they  enter,  mirth  ceases.  A  remarkable  silence  falls 
apon  the  group.  Everybody  looks  at  anything  but  Violet  and 
her  companion. 

These  last  advance  in  a  leisurely  manner  up  the  room,  yet 
with  somewhat  of  the  sneaking  air  of  those  who  are  in  the 
possession  of  embarrassing  news  that  must  be  told  before  much 
time  goes  by.  The  thought  of  this  perhaps  deadens  their 
perception  and  makes  them  blind  to  the  fact  that  the  others 
are  unnaturally  quiet. 

"  It  has  been  such  a  charming  day,"  says  Violet,  at  last,  in 
a  rather  mechanical  tone.  Yet,  in  spite  of  its  stiltedness, 
it  breaks  the  spell  of  consternation  aud  confusion  that  has 
bound  the  others  in  its  chains,  and  restores  them  to  speech. 

They  all  smile,  and  say,  "  Yes,  indeed,"  or  "  Oh,  yes,  in- 
deed," or  plain  "  Yes,"  in  a  breath.  They  all  feel  intensely 
obliged  to  Violet  for  her  very  ordinary  little  remark. 

Then  it  is  enchanting  to  watch  t\\Q.  petit  soins,  the  delicate 
little  attentions  that  the  women  in  a  carefully  suppressed  fash- 
ion lavish  upon  the  bride-elect, — as  she  already  is  to  them. 
There  is  nothing  under  heaven  so  dear  to  a  woman's  heart 
as  a  happy  love-affair, — except,  indeed,  it  be  an  unhappy  one. 
Just  get  a  woman  to  understand  you  have  broken  or  are  break- 
ing (the  last  is  the  best)  your  heart  about  any  one,  and  she 
will  be  your  friend  on  the  spot.  It  is  so  unutterably  sweet  to 
her  to  be  a  confidante  in  any  secret  where  Dan  Cupid  holds 
first  place. 

Mona,  rising,  pushes  Violet  gently  into  her  own  chair,  a 
little  black-and-gold  wicker  thing,  gaudily  cushioned. 

"  Yes,  sit  there,"  she  says,  a  new  note  of  tender  sympathy 
in  her  tone,  keeping  her  hand  on  Violet's  shoulder  as  the 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  323 

latter  makes  some  faint  polite  eifort  to  rise  again.    "  You  must 
indeed.     It  is  such  a  dear,  cosey,  comfortable  little  chair." 

Why  it  has  become  suddenly  necessary  that  Violet  should 
be  made  cosey  and  comfortable  she  omits  to  explain. 

Then  Dorothy,  goint);  up  to  the  new-comer,  removes  her 
hat  from  her  head,  and  pats  her  cheeks,  and  tells  her  with  one 
of  her  loveliest  smiles  that  she  has  "  such  a  delicious  color, 
dearest !  just  like  a  wee  bit  of  fresh  apple-blossom  1" 

Apple-blossom  suggests  the  orchard,  whereon  Violet  reddens 
perceptibly,  and  Nolly  grows  cold  with  fright,  and  feels  a  little 
more  will  make  him  faint. 

Lastly,  Lady  Rodney  comes  to  the  front  with — 

"  You  have  not  tired  yourself,  dear,  I  hope.  The  day  has 
been  so  oppressively  warm,  more  like  July  than  May.  Would 
you  like  your  tea  now,  Violet?  We  can  have  it  half  an  hour 
earlier  if  you  wish." 

All  these  evidences  of  affection  Violet  notices  in  a  dreamy, 
far-off  fashion  :  she  is  the  happier  because  of  them  ;  yet  she 
only  appreciates  them  languidly,  being  filled  with  one  absorb- 
ing thought,  that  dulls  all  others.  She  accepts  the  chair, 
the  compliment,  and  the  tea  with  grace,  but  with  somewhat 
vague  gratitude. 

To  Jack  his  brothers  are  behaving  with  the  utmost  bon- 
Jiomie.  They  have  called  him  "  old  fellow"  twice,  and  once 
Geoffrey  has  slapped  him  on  the  back  with  a  heartiness  well 
meant,  and  no  doubt  encouraging,  but  trying. 

And  Jack  is  greatly  pleased  with  them,  and,  seeing  every- 
thing just  now  through  a  rose-colored  veil,  tells  himself  he  is 
specially  blessed  in  his  own  people,  and  that  Geoffrey  and  old 
Nick  are  two  of  the  decentest  old  men  alive.  Yet  he  too  is 
a  little  distrait,  being  lost  in  an  endeavor  to  catch  Violet's 
eyes, — which  eyes  refuse  persistently  to  be  so  caught. 

Nolly  alone  of  all  the  group  stands  aloof,  joining  not  at  all 
in  the  unspoken  congratulations,  and  feeling  indeed  like  noth- 
ing but  the  guilty  culprit  that  he  is. 

"  How  you  were  all  laughing  when  we  came  in  I"  says 
Violet,  presently ;  "  we  could  hear  you  all  along  the  corridor. 
Wbat  was  it  about?" 

Everybody  at  this  smiles  involuntarily, — everybody,  that  is, 
except  Nolly,  who  feels  faint  again,  and  turns  a  rich  and  lively 
orimsoQ. 


324  MJiS.  GEOFFREY. 

"  It  was  some  joke,  of  couree?"  goes  on  Violet,  not  having 
received  any  answer  to  her  first  question. 

"  It  was,"  says  Nicholas,  feeling  a  reply  can  no  longer  be 
Bhirked.  Then  he  says^  "  Ahem  1"  and  turns  his  glance  con- 
fidingly upon  the  carpet. 

But  Geoffrey,  to  whom  the  situation  has  its  charm,  takes 
tip  the  broken  thread. 

"  It  was  one  of  Nolly's  good  things,"  he  says,  genially. 
"  And  you  know  what  he  is  capable  of  when  he  likes  1  It 
was  funny  to  the  last  degree, — calculated  to  set  any  '  table  in 
a  roar.' — Give  it  to  us  again,  Nolly.  It  bears  repeating. — 
Ask  him  to  tell  it  to  you,  Violet.'^ 

"  Yes,  do,  Nolly,"  says  Violet. 

"Go  on,  Noll,"  exclaims  Dorothy,  in  her  most  encouraging 
tone.     "  Let  Violet  hear  it.     She  will  understand  it." 

"  I  would,  of  course,  with  pleasure,"  stammers  the  unfortu- 
nate Nolly, — "  only  perhaps  Violet  heard  it  before  I" 

"  Well,  really,  do  you  know,  I  think  she  did  I"  says  Mona, 
so  demurely  that  they  all  smile  again. 

"  I  call  this  beastly  mean,"  says  Mr.  Darling  to  Geoffrey  in 
an  indignant  aside.  "  You  all  gave  your  oaths  to  secrecy 
before  I  began,  and  now  you  are  determined  to  betray  me.  I 
call  it  right-down  shabby.  And  I  sha'n't  forget  it  to  any  of 
you,  let  me  tell  you  that." 

"  My  dear  fellow,  you  can't  have  forgotten  it  so  soon,"  says 
Geoffrey,  pretending  to  misunderstand  this  vehement  whisper. 
"  Don't  be  shy  I  or  shall  I  refresh  your  memory  ?  It  was, 
you  remember,  about " 

"  Oh,  yes — yes — I  know  ;  it  doesn't  matter ;  (I'll  pay  you 
out  for  this"),  says  Nolly,  savagely,  in  an  aside. 

"  Well,  I  do  like  a  good  story,"  says  Violet,  carelessly. 

•'  Then  Nolly's  last  will  suit  you  down  to  the  ground,"  says 
Nicholas.  "  Besides  its  wit,  it  possesses  the  rare  quality  of 
being  strictly  true.  It  really  occurred.  It  is  founded  on  fact. 
He  himself  vouches  for  the  truth  of  it." 

"  Oh,  go  on ;  do,"  says  Mr.  Darling,  in  a  second  aside,  who 
is  by  this  time  a  brilliant  purple  from  fear  and  indignation. 

"  Let's  have  it,"  says  Jack,  waking  up  from  his  revery, 
having  found  it  impossible  to  compel  Violet's  eyes  to  meet  his. 

'-  It  is  really  nothing,"  says  Nolly,  feverishly.  "  You  havfl 
all  heard  it  before." 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  326 

"  I  said  so,"  murmurs  Mona,  meekly. 

"  It  is  quite  an  old  story,"  goes  on  Nolly. 

"  It  is,  in  fact,  the  real  and  original  '  old,  old  story,' "  says 
Geoffrey,  innocently,  smiling  mildly  at  the  leg  of  a  distant 
table. 

"  If  you  are  bent  on  telling  'em,  do  it  all  at  once,"  whispers 
Nolly,  castiug  a  withering  glance  at  the  smiling  Geoffrey.  "  It 
will  save  time  and  trouble." 

"  I  never  saw  any  one  feel  the  heat  so  much  as  our  Oliver," 
says  Geoffrey,  pleasantly.     "  His  complexion  waxeth  warm." 

"  Would  you  like  a  fan,  Nolly  ?"  says  Mona,  with  a  laugh, 
yet  really  with  a  kindly  view  to  rescuing  him  from  his  present 
dilemma.  "  Do  you  think  you  could  find  me  mine  ?  I  fancy 
I  left  it  in  the  morning-room." 

"  I  am  sure  I  could,"  says  Nolly,  bestowing  upon  her  a 
grateful  glance,  after  which  he  starts  upon  his  errand  with 
suspicious  alacrity. 

"  How  odd  Nolly  is  at  times  I"  says  Violet,  yet  without  any 
very  great  show  of  surprise.  She  is  still  wrapped  in  her  own 
dream  of  delight,  and  is  rather  indifferent  to  objects  in  which 
but  yesterday  she  would  have  felt  an  immediate  interest. 
"  But,  Nicholas,  what  was  his  story  about?  He  seems  quite 
determined  not  to  impart  it  to  me." 

"  A  mere  nothing,"  says  Nicholas,  airily  ;  "  we  were  merely 
chaffing  him  a  little,  because  you  know  what  a  mess  he  makes 
of  anything  of  that  sort  he  takes  in  hand." 

"  But  what  was  the  subject  of  it  ?" 

"  Oh — well — those  thirty-five  charming  compatriots  ot 
Mona's  who  are  now  in  the  House  of  Commons,  or,  rather,  out 
of  it.  It  was  a  little  tale  that  related  to  their  expulsion  thp 
other  night  by  the  Speaker — and — er — other  things." 

"  If  it  was  a  political  quip,"  says  Violet,  "  I  shouldn't  care 
about  it." 

This  is  fortunate.  Every  one  feels  that  Nicholas  is  not 
only  clever,  but  singularly  lucky. 

"  It  wasn't  all  politics,  of  course,"  he  says,  carefully. 

Whereupon  every  one  thinks  he  is  a  bold  and  daring  man 
thus  to  risk  fortune  again. 

It  is  at  this  particular  moment  that  Violet,  inadvertently 
raising  her  head,  lets  her  eyes  meet  Jack  Ilodney's.  On 
which  that  young  man — being  prompt  in  action — goes  quickly 

28 


326  MRS.  OEOFFREY. 

up  to  her,  and  in  sight  of  the  assembled  multitude  takes  hei 
hand  in  his. 

"  Violet,  you  may  as  well  tell  them  all  now  as  at  any  other 
time,"  he  says,  persuasively. 

"  Oh,  no,  not  now,"  pleads  Violet,  hastily.  She  rises  hur- 
riedly from  her  seat,  and  lays  her  disengaged  hand  on  his  lips. 
For  once  in  her  life  she  loses  sight  of  her  self-possession,  and 
a  blush,  warm  and  rich  as  carmine,  mantles  on  her  cheek. 

This  fond  coloring,  suiting  the  exigencies  of  the  moment, 
suits  her  likewise.  Never  before  has  she  looked  so  entirely 
pretty.  Her  lips  tremble,  her  eyes  grow  pathetic.  And  Cap- 
tain Rodney,  already  deeply  in  love,  grows  one  degree  more 
impressed  with  the  fact  of  his  own  good  fortune  in  having 
secured  so  enviable  a  bride. 

Passing  his  arm  round  her,  he  draws  her  closer  to  him. 

"  Mother,  Violet  has  promised  to  marry  me,"  he  says,  ab- 
ruptly.    "  Haven't  you,  Violet?" 

And  Violet  says,  "  Yes,"  obediently,  and  then  the  tears 
come  into  her  eyes,  and  a  smile  is  born  upon  her  lips,  so  sweet, 
60  new,  as  compels  Doatie  to  whisper  to  Mona,  a  little  later 
on,  that  she  "  didn't  think  it  was  in  Violet  to  look  like  that." 

Here  of  course  everybody  says  the  most  charming  thing  he 
or  she  can  think  of  at  a  moment's  notice ;  and  then  they  all 
kiss  Violet,  and  Nolly,  coming  back  at  this  auspicious  instant 
with  the  fan  and  recovered  temper,  joins  in  the  general  con- 
gratulations, and  actually  kisses  her  too,  though  Geoffrey 
whispers  "  traitor"  to  him  in  an  awful  tone,  as  he  goes  forward 
to  do  it. 

"  It  is  the  sweetest  thing  that  could  have  happened,"  says 
Dorothy,  enthusiastically.  "  Now  Mona  and  you  and  I  will 
be  real  sisters." 

"  What  a  surprise  it  all  is  !"  says  Geoffrey,  hypocritically. 

*'  Yes,  isn't  it  ?"  says  Dorothy,  quite  in  good  faith  ;  "  though 
I  don't  know  after  all  why  it  should  be  ;  we  could  see  for  ouT" 
selves  ;  we  knew  all  about  it  long  ago  !" 

"  Yes,  long  ago,"  says  Geoffrey,  with  animation.  "  Quite 
an  hour  ago." 

"  Oh  I  hardly  !"  says  Violet,  with  a  soft  laugh  and  another 
blush.     "  How  could  you  ?" 

"  A  little  bird  whispered  it  to  us,"  explains  Geoffrey,  lightly. 
Then,  taking  pity  on  Nolly's  evident  agony,  he  goes  on,  "  that 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  327 

is,  you  know,  we  guessed  it ;  you  were  so  long  absent,  and — 
and  that." 

There  is  something  deplorably  lame  about  this  exposition, 
when  you  take  into  consideration  the  fact  that  the  new  lovers 
have  been,  during  the  past  two  months,  always  absent  from 
the  rest  of  the  family,  as  a  rule. 

But  Violet  is  content. 

"  It  is  like  a  fairy-tale,  and  quite  as  pretty,"  says  little  Dor- 
othy, who  is  quite  safe  to  turn  out  an  inveterate  match-maker 
when  a  few  more  years  have  rolled  over  her  sunny  head. 

"  Or  like  Nolly's  story  that  he  declines  telling  me,"  says 
Violet,  with  a  laugh. 

"  Well,  really,  now  you  say  it,"  says  Geoffrey,  as  though 
suddenly  struck  with  a  satisfactory  idea,  "  it  is  uncommonly 
like  Nolly's  tale :  when  you  come  to  compare  one  with  the 
Dther  they  sound  almost  similar." 

"  What  I  How  could  Jack  or  I  resemble  an  Irish  member  ?" 
asks  she,  with  a  little  grimace. 

"  Everything  has  its  romantic  side,"  says  Geoffrey  ;  "  even 
an  Irish  member,  I  dare  say.  And  when  you  do  induce  Nolly 
to  favor  you  with  his  last  joke,  you  will  see  that  it  is  positively 
bristling  with  romance." 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

BOW  WEDDING-BELLS  CAN  BE  HEARD  IN  THE  DISTANCE — 
HOW  LOVE  ENXOMPASSES  MONA — AND  HOW  AT  LAST 
PAEEWELL   IS   SPOKEN. 

And  now  what  remains  to  be  told  ?  But  little,  I  think  ! 
For  my  gentle  Mona  has  reached  that  haven  where  she  would 
be! 

Violet  and  Dorothy  are  to  be  married  next  month,  both  on 
the  same  day,  at  the  same  hour,  in  the  same  church, — St. 
George's,  Hanover  Scjuare,  without  telling.  From  old  Lord 
Steyne's  house  in  Mayfair,  by  Dorothy's  special  desire,  both 
marriages  are  to  take  place,  Violet's  father  being  somewhat 


328  MRS.  GEOFFREY. 

erratic  in  bis  tastes,  and  in  fact  at  this  moment  wandering  aim- 
lessly among  the  Himalayas. 

Mona  is  happier  than  words  can  say.  She  is  up  to  her 
eyes  in  the  business,  that  business  sweetest  to  a  woman's  soul, 
the  ordering  and  directing  and  general  management  of  a 
trousseau.  In  her  case  she  is  doubly  blessed,  because  she  hag 
the  supervising  of  two  I 

Her  sympathy  is  unbounded,  her  temper  equal  to  the  most 
trying  occasions,  her  heart  open  to  the  most  petty  grievances ; 
she  is  to  the  two  girls  an  unfailing  source  of  comfort, — a 
refuge  where  they  may  unrebuked  pour  out  the  indignation 
against  their  dress-makers  that  seems  to  rage  unceasingly 
within  their  breasts. 

Indeed,  as  Dorothy  says  one  day,  out  of  the  plenitude  of 
her  heart,  "  How  we  should  possibly  have  got  on  without  you, 
Mona,  I  shudder  to  contemplate." 

Geoflfrey  happening  to  be  present  when  this  flattering  re- 
mark is  made,  Violet  turns  to  him  and  says  impulsively, — 

"  Oh,  Geoflfrey,  Wiisn't  it  well  you  went  to  Ireland  and  met 
Mona  ?  Because  if  you  had  stayed  on  here  last  autumn  we 
might  have  been  induced  to  marry  each  other,  and  then  what 
would  have  become  of  poor  Jack  ?" 

"  What,  indeed  ?"  says  Geoflfrey,  tragically.  "  Worse  still, 
what  would  have  become  of  poor  Mona?" 

"  What  is  it  you  would  say  ?"  exclaims  Mona,  threateningly, 
turning  towards  him  a  lovely  face  she  vainly  tries  to  clothe 
with  anger. 

''  It  is  insupportable  such  an  insinuation,"  says  the  lively 
Doatie.  "  Violet,  Mona's  cause  is  ours :  what  shall  we  do  to 
him?" 

"  '  Brain  him  with  his  lady's  fan  1' "  quotes  Violet,  gayly, 
snatching  up  Mona's  fan  that  lies  on  a  prie-dleu  near,  and 
going  up  to  Geoflfrey. 

So  determined  is  her  aspect  that  Geoflfrey  shows  the  white 
leather,  and,  crying  "  mea  culpa,'''  beats  a  hasty  retreat. 

From  morn  to  dewy  eve,  nothing  is  discussed  in  bower  or 
boudoir  but  flounces,  frills,  and  furbelows, — three /''s  that  are 
considered  at  the  Towers  of  far  more  vital  importance  than 
those  other  three  of  Mr.  Parnell's  forming.  And  Mona,  hav- 
ing proved  herself  quite  in  good  taste  in  the  matter  of  her 
own  gowns,  and  almost  an  artist  where  coloring  is  concerned, 


MRS.  OEOFFREY.  329 

is  appealed  to  by  both  girls  on  all  occasions  about  such  things 
as  must  be  had  in  readiness  "  Against  their  brydale  day,  which 
is  not  long." — As,  for  instance : 

"  Mona,  do  you  think  Elise  is  right  ?  she  is  so  very  posi- 
tive ;  are  you  sure  heliotrope  is  the  correct  shade  to  go  with 
this?"     Or— 

"  Dearest  Mona,  I  must  interrupt  you  again.  Are  you 
very  busy?  No?  Oh,  then  do  come  and  look  at  the  last 
bonnet  Madame  Verot  has  just  sent.  She  says  there  will 
be  nothing  to  equal  it  this  season.  But,"  in  a  heart-broken 
voice,  "  I  cannot  bring  myself  to  think  it  becoming." 

Lady  Rodney,  too,  is  quite  happy.  Everything  has  come 
right ;  all  is  smooth  again  ;  there  is  no  longer  cause  for  chagrin 
and  never-ending  fear.  With  Paul  Rodney's  death  the  latter 
feeling  ceased,  and  Mona's  greatness  of  heart  has  subdued  the 
former.  She  has  conquered  and  laid  her  enemy  low  :  without 
the  use  of  any  murderous  force  the  walls  have  fallen  down  be- 
fore her,  and  she  has  marched  into  the  citadel  with  colors 
flying. 

Yet  does  she  not  triumph  over  her  beaten  foe ;  nay,  so 
different  is  it  with  her  that  she  reaches  forth  her  hand  to 
raise  her  again,  and  strives  by  every  tender  means  in  her 
power  to  obliterate  all  memory  of  the  unpleasant  past. 

And  Lady  Rodney  is  very  willing  that  it  should  be  obliter- 
ated. Just  now,  indeed,  it  is  a  favorite  theory  of  hers  that 
she  could  never  have  been  really  uncivil  to  dear  Mona  (she  is 
always  "  dear  Mona"  of  late  days)  but  for  the  terrible  anxiety 
that  lay  upon  her,  caused  by  the  Australian  and  the  missing 
will,  and  the  cruel  belief  that  soon  Nicholas  would  be  banished 
from  the  home  where  he  had  reigned  so  long  as  master.  Had 
things  gone  happily  with  her,  her  mind  would  not  have  been 
BO  warped,  and  she  would  have  learned  at  once  to  understand 
and  appreciate  the  sweetness  of  the  dear  girl's  character  I  And 
8o  on. 

Mona  accepts  this  excuse  for  bygone  injustice,  and  even 
encourages  her  mother-in-law  to  enlarge  upon  it, — seeing  how 
comfortable  it  i.s  to  her  so  to  do, — and  furthermore  tries  hard 
in  her  own  kind  heart  to  believe  in  it  also. 

She  is  perhaps  as  near  being  angry  with  Geoffrey  as  she 
can  bj  when  one  day  he  pooh-poohs  this  charitable  thought 
and  gives  it  as  his  belief  that  worry  had  nothing  to  do  with 

28* 


330  MRS.  GEOFFREY. 

it,  aud  that  his  mother  behaved  uncommonly  badly  all 
through,  and  that  sheer  obstinacy  and  bad  temper  was  the 
cause  of  the  whole  matter. 

"  She  had  made  up  her  mind  that  you  would  be  insupport- 
able, and  she  couldn't  forgive  you  because  you  weren't,"  says 
that  astute  young  man,  with  calm  conviction.  "  Don't  you 
be  taken  in,  Mona." 

But  Mona  in  such  a  case  as  this  prefers  being  "  taken  in" 
(though  she  may  object  to  the  phrase),  and  in  process  of  time 
grows  positively  fond  of  Lady  Kodney. 

"  In  company  with  so  divme  a  face,  no  rancorous  thoughts 
could  live,"  said  the  duke  on  one  memorable  occasion,  alluding 
to  Mona,  which  speech  was  rather  a  lofty  soar  for  His  Grace, 
he  being  for  the  most  part  of  the  earth,  earthy. 

Yet  in  this  he  spoke  the  truth,  echoing  iSpeuser  (though 
unconsciously),  where  he  says, — 

"So  every  spirit,  as  it  is  most  pure 
And  hath  in  it  the  more  of  heavenly  light, 
So  it  the  fairer  bodie  doth  procure 
To  habit  in. 

For  of  the  soule  the  bodie  forme  doth  take, 
For  soulo  is  forme  and  doth  the  bodie  make." 

With  Lady  Rodney  she  will,  I  think,  be  always  the  favor- 
ite daughter.  She  is  quite  her  right  hand  now.  She  can 
hardly  get  on  without  her,  and  tells  herself  her  blankest  days 
are  those  when  Mona  aud  Geoffrey  return  to  their  own  home, 
and  the  Towers  no  longer  echoes  to  the  musical  laugh  of  old 
Brian  Scully's  niece,  or  to  the  light  footfall  of  her  pretty 
feet.  Violet  and  Dorothy  will  no  doubt  be  dear ;  but  Mona, 
having  won  it  against  much  odds,  will  ever  hold  first  place  in 
her  affections. 

After  all,  she  has  proved  a  great  success.  She  has  fought 
her  fight,  and  gained  her  victory ;  but  the  conquered  has  deep 
reason  to  be  grateful  to  her  victor. 

Where  would  they  all  be  now  but  for  her  timely  entry 
into  the  library  on  that  night  never  to  be  forgotten,  and  her 
influence  over  the  poor  dead-and-gone  cousin  ?  Even  in  the 
matter  of  fortune  she  has  not  been  behindhand,  Paul  Rod- 
ney's death  having  enriched  her  beyond  all  expectation. 
Without  doubt,  therefore,  there  is  good  reason  to  rejoice  over 
Mrs.  Geoffrey. 


MRS.  GEOFFREY.  331 

To  this  name,  given  to  her  in  such  an  unkindly  spirit, 
Moaa  clings  with  singular  pertinacity.  Once,  when  Nolly  has 
called  her  by  it  in  Lady  Rodney's  hearing,  the  latter  raises 
her  head,  and  a  remorseful  light  kindles  in  her  eyes ;  and 
when  Mr.  Darling  has  taken  himself  away  she  turns  entreat- 
ingly  to  Mona,  and,  with  a  warm  accession  of  coloring,  says, 
earnestly, — 

"  My  dear,  I  behaved  badly  to  you  in  that  matter.  Let 
me  tell  Oliver  to  call  you  Mrs.  Rodney  for  the  future.  It  is 
your  proper  name." 

But  Mona  will  not  be  entreated ;  sweetly,  but  firmly,  she 
declines  to  alter  the  sobriquet  given  her  so  long  ago  now. 
With  much  gentleness  she  tells  Lady  Rodney  that  she  loves 
the  name ;  that  it  is  dearer  to  her  than  any  other  could  ever 
be ;  that  to  be  Mrs.  Geoffrey  is  the  utmost  height  of  her 
very  highest  ambition ;  and  to  change  it  now  would  only 
cause  her  pain  and  a  vague  sense  of  loss. 

So  after  this  earnest  protest  no  more  is  ever  said  to  her 
upon  the  subject,  and  Mrs.  Geoffrey  she  is  now  to  her  friends, 
and  Mrs.  Geoffrey,  I  think,  she  wUl  remain  to  the  end  of 
the  chapter. 


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